Forward to Time Past
by Unbridled Brunette
Summary: The victim of a spell gone awry, Buffy finds herself trapped in Victorian London, where she meets a man surprisingly familiar to her. Winner of twenty-seven awards, including three Best WIPs. Thanks to all who review!
1. Prologue

**Author's note:** This is Part One of a four to five part novel-length story. This first section deals exclusively with Spike's human self, William and it contains very little violence. Spike as a vampire will appear in Part Two and the nature of the story will change thereafter. This will be a very long character driven story with a lot of plot. If you're looking for a PWP this isn't it. Also...please note that this story begins during season 5, after the events of _Forever_ but **before** _Intervention_

Special thanks to Patti (slaymesoftly) for becoming my brand-new beta. She's editing Chapter 22 on out, so I'm sure you'll see a definite improvement in my writing from here on out.

* * *

**Part One**

_Oh, faithless generation, how long shall I be with you? How long shall I suffer you? _

Mark 9:19

* * *

**Prologue **

"You know, I am getting really tired of your selfishness."

"Tell it to someone who cares, hell bitch," Buffy snapped back, picking herself up off the floor and trying to ignore the throbbing ache where her back had collided with the wall. "I, for one, am getting really tired of you showing up at my house, spouting threats. You got a beef with me, then do something about it already!"

Glory folded her arms over her breasts, looking both amused and irritated by this display of audacity. She cocked her head to one side thoughtfully.

"You know…I think you're right," she said. "I've tried to be the nice girl….I've tried to meet you on middle ground. All I want is what's mine and all I'm asking is that you give it to me. But if you wanna play rough then I can do that, too."

She raised her arm and Buffy cringed, not knowing what was coming but knowing it was going to mean a world of hurt for her.

What was Willow doing? She'd found a spell in one of the Magic Box's more archaic texts; one which she assured Buffy would be just the thing to rid them of Glory forever. Willow had sworn left field and right that she could do the spell just fine with a little help from Tara, so Buffy had orchestrated an attack on Glory's minions, which would be sure to incite the bitch's wrath.

Well, that part of the plan had worked anyway.

But now here she was, vulnerable, Glory preparing to attack…and Willow was nowhere to be seen. The plan had been to keep Glory talking while Will and Tara did the chanty thing; then they would burst in at precisely the right moment to mojo that bitch into the third dimension. But Buffy had been talking circles around Glory—and taking the brunt of her frustrations—for some time now. If the two witches didn't show up soon, Buffy had a feeling they would be spending the following day scrubbing Slayer bits out of the living room carpet.

But just as this thought crossed her mind, Buffy heard the sound of a door opening somewhere behind her. Willow's voice was chanting something in Latin, low and quick, and Tara's voice screamed out: "Buffy! MOVE!"

She dove off to the right just as a blinding sphere of light burst from the palm of Willow's extended right hand. It rocketed straight for Glory, but the ex-god was quick and she ducked the spell with ease.

Just as quickly Willow shot another spell and this time Glory wasn't so lucky. She tried to avoid the magic by darting to one side but she moved a second too late. The hex hit her full force and she shrieked her rage even as her body dissolved into a burst of light. Willow immediately collapsed in an exhausted heap at Tara's feet.

Buffy turned to Willow, a wide smile on her face. She could hardly believe it, after so many months she was gone. Glory was gone. She opened her mouth to thank her friends—both of whom were looking extremely drained—when suddenly something struck her with all the force of a freight train. She hardly had time to realize what had happened before the room around her disappeared, replaced by a light so bright there wasn't room for anything else.

It was Willow's first spell. When Glory ducked it had hit the hall mirror, ricocheting onto Buffy. And before anyone had time to react—least of all Buffy herself—she was gone.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One **

It was as though time had slowed to a crawl. Not stopped, for Buffy could feel things happening around her—vague, unseen movements and sounds she could not comprehend. But it all happened so slowly, and she hung in the air in the meantime, surrounded by a blinding light that hurt even when she closed her eyes. And as if in a dream, she heard her own voice speaking to Willow the day before, asking questions about the spell they would use to displace Glory.

_"Where will the spell take her?"_

_"Well it's hard to say, exactly. With dimensions you're always on shaky ground. Some of them move, you know."_

_"But it won't be here, in this dimension."_

_"Not in this time or place, anyway."_

_"Hey, as long as I don't have to deal with her…it's peachy."_

Buffy felt a sharp jerk from behind her, as though something large and cruel was trying to pull her out of the light—and succeeding at the task.

She flew backwards, struck something hard and rolled head over feet for several paces before finally coming to rest. The light was gone, but the bright intensity of it had left her retinas throbbing, black spots peppering her vision like falling snow. She clamped her eyes shut and, clutching the hard-packed earth beneath her, waited for the world to stop spinning.

All around her was noise, but she could not discern one sound from another. Her head ached and everything seemed muffled. There was a stench in the air which was recognizable to her if not familiar. It was the smell of many animals—livestock, mostly—and the smell of straw. There was a smoky odor as well, a choking sort of stench that was definitely was not wood burning, and an acrid smell like unwashed bodies.

Slowly, Buffy raised her head from the dirt. Her vision was fuzzy, but the black spots had gone and everything was slowly coming into focus. She could see, now, that it was still daylight where she was. Mid or late afternoon by the looks of it. She was on the side of a dirt track on which many wagons were traveling—wagons, she was relieved to note, that were being driven by human beings, not monsters or demons.

Still…wagons?

Buffy frowned as she watched the steady procession of horse and mule-drawn carts which creaked slowly by. The men sitting on the board seats of these carts were definitely not of 2001 and most likely not from California. They were dirty-faced, bewhiskered creatures, garbed in clumsy boots and coarse clothing. They seemed to her like something out of a Dickens' novel, not like real people at all. And when they shouted greetings to one another she could hear that they spoke like Dickens' characters too, with the rough, slang-filled speech of a low class Englishman.

_"'ey, Joe! How's the missus these days?" _

"'ello, Guvnor. She's as to be expected and no better. Bloody doctor's a thief, he is, for what I'm bein' charged for her medicine…"

"Move it along, will you gents! I've gotta get this load in 'fore sundown…"

Buffy's heart tried to lodge itself in her throat and she quickly swallowed it back down. Wherever she was—whenever she was—it was definitely not Sunnydale. Not even close. And as much as that idea frightened her, Buffy knew there was nothing to be gained out of panicking. If she wanted to get out of this situation she would need to stay calm. Clenching her jaw resolutely, Buffy pushed herself up off the ground. The first thing she needed to do was figure out exactly where this was. Then she could start formulating a plan on how to contact Willow and Tara. If they knew where she was it would be a lot easier for them to find her and bring her back home.

Suddenly a voice broke into her thoughts with a stern: "Hey! You there!"

Buffy blinked, still too disoriented to easily find the source of the shouting. And before she could gather her wits enough to know what was happening, the voice spoke again.

"I say, you there!"

It was a male voice with the accent of a middle class Englishman. For a moment Buffy thought it was Giles, but this was about an octave too low and the tone was remarkably hard. A rough hand gripped her arm suddenly and Buffy found herself being pulled to the street—by the owner of said voice, no less.

"What do you think you are doing here?"

He was a young man, maybe twenty-five at most, though he carried himself with as much dignity as someone twice that. His short clipped black hair was slickly oiled beneath his hat and his mustache was a tiny line over his top lip. He was dressed in a blue uniform with bright brass buttons down the front. His hat was also blue and it had something that looked like a badge on it. Another badge was pinned to the front of his coat.

"Are you—are you a police officer?" she asked confusedly. He looked like one, though his uniform was strange. What Buffy couldn't figure out was why he was looking at her as though she had done something wrong.

"I am constable, yes ma'am," he told her sternly. "And, miss, you are in a great deal of trouble."

She gaped at him.

"For what?"

"For the indecency of your dress, my lady."

Buffy looked down at herself with bewilderment. She wasn't wearing a dress; she was wearing her army-green cargo pants and a black tank shirt. It was true that her clothes were a little grimy from the battle with Glory, but they were whole and they covered everything that was meant to be covered. She looked back at the officer with consternation.

"I don't understand…"

"Well, then come along, and I shall explain it on our walk back."

Still gripping her arm, the constable began to lead her down the roadside. Buffy considered fighting him, but he had a pistol in a holster against his hip. And he was a cop. Wherever she was and whenever she was, she didn't want to get herself thrown in the clink for assaulting a police officer.

As they walked the constable explained to her the rules of proper dress in public, but Buffy hardly heard a word he said. She was looking around them in wonderment. It was as if she had suddenly opened up the pages of _Oliver Twist_ and stepped inside. Men and women in period costumes were milling all around them. Some of them were rough-looking, dirty. But others…oh some of them were beautiful! There were women in colorful dresses with long-trained, bustled skirts, exquisite little hats and bonnets perched on their hair. Men wore tailcoats and top hats—or else jackets with waistcoats and cravats. Children were adorable in short pants or pinafores.

The streets, too, were like something from a period novel. The dirt track became a wide road paved with cobblestones as they left the more industrial part of town. The buildings were closer together here and much better kept, and the mule-carts were lost amongst a throng of carriages and buggies drawn by sleek horses. A man was idling near the curb, reading a newspaper. The _London News-Observer,_ according to the front page. And if her quick searching glance could be trust the date on the paper was listed as December 5th, 1879.

London. 1879.

Buffy stopped short, stunned. She was in 19th century London. How the hell had that happened? Willow was supposed to be sending Glory to another dimension, not the past. If the first spell sent Buffy to Victorian England then where had the hell god ended up?

"Oh, this isn't good," she moaned.

The constable ignored her words, but he shook her elbow to get her moving again. "I was halfway through my dinner pail when the complaints came in about you."

She supposed she should sympathize with him that he had not finished his meal, but his superior tone irked her and she had to bite her lip to keep from snapping at him. Not that he noticed. He was too busy expounding on the indecency of a woman appearing on public streets in such tight, revealing garments.

"And amongst the rough masons and carters of the brickyard!" he exclaimed. "I have never in my born days seen such a display, not even from the boldest of fancy women."

"Fancy women?" she echoed, completely baffled. "What—are you calling me a _whore?"_

The constable stopped dead in his tracks, looking absolutely horrified.

"Sakes alive, miss, don't you be saying such on the public streets! There are children…"

She lowered her voice obediently and he went on, satisfied.

"I'm not a prostitute," she insisted.

"Perhaps you aren't," he consented skeptically. "Whatever you may be you've no business conducting yourself in such a way as this. There are laws about the way a woman should present herself to others."

Buffy had been too preoccupied at first to consider what the constable was doing, but suddenly it hit her like a blow to the head.

She was being arrested.

* * *

* * *

The jail cell in which Buffy was placed was very small, maybe six by eight feet at most. There was a rough wooden bunk bolted to one wall, a small straight-backed wooden chair, and a bucket which she suspected was to serve as a toilet. Nothing else. The walls and floor were made of thick stone, and there wasn't so much a window in the room. What light there was sifted through a series of slats in the heavy steel door.

Buffy perched uncomfortably on the thin straw tick of the bunk. The room was so dim her eyes hurt, straining to make out shapes in the gloom. Just outside her cell she could hear the constables talking, their words muffled slightly by the heavy door.

"You didn't even ask her for her name, then?" This voice—a new voice—did remind her of Giles. Well bred and low, it nevertheless managed to convey kindness, authority, and intelligence with a few well chosen words.

"I did try," the constable who had picked up Buffy whined. "She was not being altogether cooperative. I tell you she would not give me her name."

"Perhaps she was frightened. You said she was dressed oddly and that others told you she appeared to be having some kind of a fit. Perhaps some calamity befell her and she was too distressed to speak."

"She is a common thing," rejoined the first man. "American at that. It is my belief no harm came to her. There was only one reason she would be by the brickyards in such attire and I believe I don't have to tell you what that reason is."

"Nevertheless," said the kind man. "I wish to speak with her myself."

The heavy door squealed a loud protest as the constable pushed it open. The younger officer tried to push in behind him, but this new man shut the door in his face rather pointedly. He turned to Buffy and smiled slightly. He was older than the first cop—lines etched around his eyes, silver dulling the dark hair of his temples. But while he was in no way a handsome or young man, there was something appealing about him, something almost fatherly. Or as Buffy thought to herself, something Giles-ish. She was relieved to see him, at any rate. She'd been rotting in this cell for hours now, and any other human being besides the constable who arrested her was a welcome sight.

"Are you another cop?" she asked somewhat nervously. He looked nice enough, but she wasn't at all sure she could trust any of these people. Wherever she was, it wasn't a place that would look kindly on someone like herself and she knew she would have to tread carefully in order to survive.

The man tilted his head to one side, evidently not understanding her question.

"I am a constable of London," he said. "But I am a bit confused as to who you might be."

"Bu—" She paused. What on earth was she supposed to tell him? Evidently she'd been trapped in some Victorian nightmare and until Willow and Tara rescued her, her only chance for survival would be to fit in. Odds were telling them her name was Buffy would not help her in that matter. It would probably reinforce their belief that she was a prostitute, as a matter of fact. But she had to tell him something and quick; the constable was staring at her with an expression of concern, as though he suspected there was something seriously wrong with her. Buffy thought fast.

"My—my name is Beth," she said finally, picking a name similar enough to her own that, hopefully, she would remember to answer to it.

His eyebrows rose almost infinitesimally, silently alerting Buffy that she had committed yet another social error. For the life of her, however, she couldn't figure out what.

"What is your Christian name?" he asked.

_Oh God,_ she thought._ Christian name? I thought only nuns had those._

"I…ah…"

"Certainly 'Beth' cannot be the name you were christened by…?" he prompted gently. And suddenly she realized what it was he wanted her to say.

"No…I'm sorry," she said quickly. "It's not. My real name is—is Elizabeth--Elizabeth Summers. Beth is a nickname." Her mind raced with other details to tell him.

"You are an American?"

"Yes. I—I arrived yesterday. I came here to be a hairdresser, but I think that the job was a scam because when went to see about the job there was no one there…it was just an empty lot. So then I started trying to find a place to stay, because it was getting dark. I was crossing the railroad tracks when suddenly someone attacked me from behind! That's the last thing I remember until the other officer found me this morning." Buffy drew a deep breath as she finished, crossing her fingers that he would believe her story, lame as it was.

Though he didn't understand everything she said, the officer seemed to have caught the gist of it. He rubbed his forehead thoughtfully for a moment, struggling against skepticism to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"They dress like this in America now?"

Crap. She'd forgotten about the clothes. What could she tell him about the clothes that would sound remotely plausible?

"My—my luggage was stolen on the boat—I mean the ship. I had nothing to wear so one of the sailors loaned me this. I didn't know it would be considered indecent—honestly. I was planning to wear it just until I could get an advance on my salary and buy new things. But the job wasn't there…"

She looked up at him, trying to make herself appear as helpless as possible, hoping to garner his pity. And, amazingly, it seemed to be working.

"What of your family?" he asked—but kindly.

"I don't have a family to speak of," she said quickly. "My mother passed away recently and my father has been dead a long time."

"I see." He frowned and rubbed a hand over his smooth-shaven chin thoughtfully, evidently trying to ascertain whether she was telling the truth or not.

"If I did something wrong I'm really sorry," Buffy told him, having grown uneasy with his thoughtful silence which dragged on and on. "And I'll pay a fine…or community service or whatever you want."

He cleared his throat.

"Well, I must say your story is an odd one, Miss Summers," he said, finally. "Yet I can't imagine you were out there for any other reason. You seem intelligent and well bred—well fed if not decently garbed. I cannot imagine you could be a—a street person."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Buffy tried to assure him: "I'm not!"

"This I believe," he told her. "And yet I am still at a loss. If I release you where will you go? I cannot in all good conscience turn a young lady out onto the city streets with no friends or relatives to take care of her."

Buffy opened her mouth to say: "I can take care of myself." But suddenly it occurred to her that if she played her cards right she might not have to.

"All I need is some directions to a hotel or something," she said slowly. "I just need a place to stay and then I can find a job somewhere…"

"No decent person would hire you dressed as you are now," the constable stated bluntly. "And a lady staying in a hotel without a companion of some sort is only asking for trouble. No, I'm thinking of a place where perhaps they could take care of you. A place which would spare a lone young woman the horror of the union houses or the back alleys. There is a long queue to get in, but I know the vicar who directs it. So perhaps…"

"Uh…I'm sorry…what?"

He blinked, as though suddenly realizing that he had been talking over her.

"Forgive me for thinking out loud," he apologized. "And allow me to explain my plan to you. There happens to be a friend of mine, a vicar. He had a rather revolutionary idea for helping the needy…most particularly the young women without husbands or families. An institution, of sorts, it is run by his church. It is a place where you will be fed and clothed, well-cared for as you are taught some skills which will be of use to you out in the world. They will help you to find a place of employment—a good place where you will not be mistreated. Women trained by his organization are most sought after in the better houses of London. The waiting list to enter is very long, but as he is a friend of mine I think they might receive you fairly immediately. That is to say…if you are willing?"

Buffy smiled weakly. That was not exactly what she'd had in mind.

"Um…okay…thanks…"

* * *


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

The vicar friend of Buffy's kindhearted policeman was called Jonathan Chapman. The first indication Buffy had that his organization, the Chapman Institute for Women and Children, would not be the storybook charity house run by kindhearted missionaries that she first imagined, was that the vicar himself did not seem to be at hand. In fact, from what she heard from the people around her, the vicar really had very little to do with the actual running of the organization at all. He set it up; he collected money to fund it. Beyond that he seemed to have very little interest in the place and very little to do with the day-to-day life of the women who resided there. All of that was left to a hodge-podge group of women—both paid staff and volunteers—whose job it was to teach the Institute's charges the skills necessary to earn their own womanly way in the world.

The second indication Buffy had that this would not end with fairytale flair was that the kind-hearted constable seemed infinitely more concerned with getting home to his wife's dinner than helping Buffy adjust to her new surroundings. Confident that he had done his Christian duty, he said a few words to the staff and then departed, leaving Buffy standing beneath the general director's disapproving gaze.

Dorothea Mann, the Institute's director, was a plump and middle-aged woman with graying hair and coarse, overblown features. Though dressed very simply, she was neat as a pin and crisply starched, her hair smoothed into a bun near the nape of her neck. She might have been almost motherly-looking had her countenance not suggested she had been lunching on some very sour lemons. She took one look at the faded cotton dress Buffy's constable had supplied her with and sneered.

Truth be told, Buffy didn't exactly blame her for that. The clothes were awful, but the constable had insisted he could not allow her back on the public streets until she was garbed "decently." After speaking with his vicar friend and securing Buffy a place at the Chapman Institute, the constable had gone home to fetch some clothing from his wife. The faded sprigged cotton dress and graying underthings were clearly bound for the church charity bin long before Buffy got her hands on them. Beyond this, they were ill-fitting and extremely uncomfortable, being both too loose for Buffy's small frame and much too long. However, there had been no alternative other than the hooker one, so she had put them on.

Dorothea's next words made her seriously wonder if she had made the wrong decision.

"You'll have to learn to present yourself better than that, if you expect to get on here," she said plainly. "I expect you've no idea how to take in a dress or raise a hem?"

Of course, Buffy had to admit she didn't.

Dorothea's narrow eyes grew even narrower. "Such as I'd expect. What the mothers of the world are thinking, sending their daughters out into it with no skill and no sense is beyond me. Well, come along with you. I've not got all day."

She swept out of the drafty foyer and Buffy obediently followed suit. They climbed a set of narrow and very rickety stairs which led to an equally narrow hallway lined with doors.

"You'll be sleeping here," Dorothea snapped, flinging open the second to last door on the right. "Right now you're to be alone, but another girl will arrive tomorrow morning and she'll be sharing it with you. I expect you to leave room for her things and treat her with respect once she arrives."

Buffy couldn't imagine living in that room by herself, let alone sharing it with another person. It was narrow, smaller than the bathroom at home on Revello Drive, and windowless. Crammed against each wall was a narrow iron bedstead with a lumpy straw-filled mattress. The blankets were threadbare wool, the pillows flat and dingy. Between the beds was a stubby set of dresser drawers in desperate need of refinishing; the wood was scarred and chipped and two drawer handles were missing. The only decent thing Buffy could say about it was that at least there was no window to cast light on the sheer austere ugliness of the place.

"You'll be responsible for caring for your own things," Dorothea told her in such a way as to imply that if she didn't there would be hell to pay. "You'll make your bed and keep your room neat at all times. Housework is rotated weekly between the women, but no one is expected to have to clear up after anyone else. This isn't a hostel," she added, as if Buffy accused it off being one. As if Buffy even knew what a hostel was.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But what exactly is this place? The constable told me a little, but to tell you the truth I didn't really understand…"

Dorothea rolled her eyes. "It's a place where girls with no prospects and no intelligence can live while kindhearted people teach them the skills necessary to survive."

"Yeah, I got that part. But what skills? I mean…what kind of jobs are they getting us ready for?"

"Why, womanly jobs, of course! We've turned out dressmakers' assistants and ladies' maids, cooks and housekeepers and nannies. What did you think? That you'd stay here indefinitely? You'll learn what we teach and be gone within a month. Or you won't learn what we teach, you'll be obstinate or stupid, and you'll still be gone in a month. We don't allow malingering here. Now come on; I'll show you the rest of the house and explain your chores to you."

Reluctantly, Buffy followed the stout director back downstairs. Her long skirt almost tripped her up as she navigated the steep steps and the corset stays were digging into her ribcage. Not to mention the headache she was getting, listening to Dorothea describe all the "chores" she would be expected to complete while at the same time learning some type of trade. She closed her eyes briefly, trying hard not to let fear overwhelm her.

_Willow, I hope you're working on a way to get me home soon…_

* * *

* * *

Later that night, after the tour and the introductions, after the chores and a completely heinous dinner, as she lay in bed, exhausted and confused, Buffy went over her options. She could stay here, of course. It was free room and board, anyway. And Willow might get her mojo on and have Buffy back home before they shipped her off to be a chamber maid. The place might have all the homey charm of a prison cellblock and the "chores" were definitely more along the lines of penal servitude. But at least it was safe enough.

Going it alone wasn't really an option, she decided. Or at least not one she cared to explore. She couldn't rent a room without money to pay for it, and as the constable said, no one would hire her as she was now. And panhandling on the streets or prostituting herself was definitely not on the agenda.

The only real alternative she could think of was to search out the Watchers Council and beg their help in getting back to her own time. She knew their headquarters were in London, and she could easily offer up proof of her identity as a slayer. But she didn't trust the Watchers, here or in any other time. She was afraid they might look at her and think two slayers were better than one, that they might not help her go home at all but instead enlist her as a partner for the current slayer, whoever that might be. They might even hinder her in her efforts to get home. She wouldn't put anything past them. Which meant that her alternative wasn't really much of an alternative at all.

She sighed and tugged at the neck of her cheap cotton nightdress. Dorothea had give it to her—a cast-off of somebody's cast-off—once she found out that all Buffy had were literally the clothes on her back. Dorothea didn't like her. Not that the woman had come right out and said it, but Buffy could tell. She wasn't sure, but she thought that it might have to do with the fact that the policeman had slipped her in without a wait. Dorothea seemed to resent it when any of the poverty-stricken women under her care caught a break. And Buffy was an American, an outsider being treated to care usually only provided to Londoners.

Honestly, the other women didn't seem all that fond of her either. Maybe the American thing again. Or it could just be that Buffy was the only one among them who wasn't strapped down with two or three kids. Though several of them were near to her own age they seemed so much older. Tired and worn down with caring for children and worrying about money—and seemingly not very enthusiastic about their future prospects as servants to the wealthy.

Buffy sighed. They weren't the only ones dreading it.

She rolled over, trying to find a comfortable spot on the bed. It was impossible. If the straw wasn't poking up against its rough canvas cover and making her skin itch, then her body was jabbed against the woven rope that served as a support for the mattress. Her muscles were already aching from the stress of the situation and the back-breaking "after dinner" chores Dorothea had assigned her, and this was certainly not helping any.

She sniffed her armpit.

Plus, she was really starting to feel gross. There was a strict rule at Chapman that the residents were allowed only one real bath a week. Real was a matter of perspective to Buffy, since this consisted of sitting in a tin tub of tepid water hauled from the well and heated on the stove, and then scrubbing oneself with slimy brown soft soap. But it was still better than the "spit bath" they were sentenced to for the rest of the week. A "spit bath," she discovered, meant washing one's body with a rag dipped into a basin of water and without the benefit of soap on anything except the most vital of areas. And after the "bath" there was no deodorant, powder, or perfume to help keep you fresh until your next bath. Hell, there wasn't even toothpaste to keep her breath decent, just a hideous white powder that came in a tin and tasted like chalk dust. If she had to stay here more than a couple of days, Buffy was certain she would be in danger of attracting flies or contracting a disease. Maybe both.

She groaned and turned her face into the pillow. Even Glory's hell-dimension home was looking pretty good compared to this.

* * *

* * *

In the next several days, Buffy was to learn that her initial fears about the Chapman Institute were perfectly warranted. The place was the ninth level of hell.

Actually, it didn't even take her several days to figure this out; she knew on the first day. Having rolled out of bed at the ass-crack of dawn, she stumbled downstairs and directly into Dorothea's wrath. Because, apparently, the ass-crack of dawn wasn't quite early enough. No, Buffy would have to get up at least an hour earlier in order to perform her "before breakfast" chores (as she soon discovered there was a series of chores to be performed before every meal, a cunning way to ensure that everyone completed their tasks because, otherwise, they wouldn't get fed). The tasks were rotated weekly and for her first week there Buffy's job was to empty and rinse all the chamber pots in the house, gather the dirty linens and place them in the laundry basket, and stoke up the fire in the kitchen stove. The first two tasks were nothing short of disgusting and the third she had no idea how to do—the result being that for the first four days she stayed at the Institute she spent the first part of her morning listening to Dorothea yell about how incompetent she was.

After the chores, there was breakfast, a singularly abysmal affair. No one talked but ate of their tasteless porridge and toast as quickly as possible in order to get started on their "after breakfast" chores. Buffy's main task after breakfast was to help with the washing-up, which meant that she and another girl had to lug pails of water from the well to dump into the big basin in the kitchen. When the basin was near-full they placed it on the stove to heat. Then they scrubbed all of the dirty breakfast dishes, rinsed and dried them, and neatly stacked them in the cupboard to await the next meal. And woe betide the girl who dropped a plate or cup and broke it. Buffy did this on her second morning, and Dorothea spent such a long time verbally thrashing her that she was behind on everything else for the rest of the day.

After the dishes and after Buffy had straightened her own room it was time for lessons. Each girl was assigned a certain career path based on an assessment of her abilities or talents. For instance, if she already had some basic skills hemming clothes then they would teach her how to baste dress pieces and use a sewing machine, so that someday she would be a decent dressmaker's assistant. Girls who could already cook were encouraged to improve on that skill so that they could be bakers or under-chefs in a big house, and so on. From the very first day Buffy attended the lessons at Chapman, she proved a challenge to the staff.

A big problem they had was that on their assessment, they could not find that she possessed any discernable skills. She couldn't cook; she couldn't sew; she knew nothing about children. She couldn't even build a proper fire in the stove, which meant that even the position of scullery maid—the most base of jobs—was beyond her reach. At first, the staff told themselves this didn't matter, that she could pick up the necessary abilities in no time and be just a little behind the rest of them. But despite huge efforts on the part of the teaching staff she remained the most domestically ignorant person at the Institute.

It wasn't that Buffy wanted to fail; she really didn't. The speech Dorothea had given her on her first night had done its trick and she was terrified of failure, terrified of being thrown out on the street after a month with no job and no prospects of getting one. It was just that everything they wanted her to do was so hard. It seemed that no matter how she tried, Buffy was never able to get things right. Even the simplest task, like cleaning, eluded her because in 19th century London everything was done differently than in the modern day. The cleaning supplies were different—a lot less helpful—and everything took about five times as long. Laundry was especially difficult: scrubbing the clothes on a washboard and sending them through a ringer, hanging them up in wet rows on the line out back. It took all day long just to do a weeks' worth and afterward her fingers felt like hamburger meat from the harshness of the soap, the constant rubbing on the washboard.

The stress of continuous failure was bad enough, but Buffy also had the stress of being a social pariah to contend with. Her assumption of the first night had been correct: none of the other women in the house liked her. They resented that she had been allowed into the Institute immediately while many of them had been forced to wait weeks or even months for a room to open up. They also distrusted her because she was American, a foreigner. They thought Americans were immoral and lazy; they wondered within her hearing why people immigrated to England when they could have stayed to be a burden on their own country. Even her own roommate—a twenty-something year old widow who arrived the day after she did—loathed her and spurned all attempts at friendship. It left her constantly on edge, being in a house full of enemies, and Buffy grew thin and nervous from lack of sleep.

She thought about Willow a lot, wondering if her friend was working to bring her home—or if there was even any hope of going home. Once, while running an errand for Dorothea, Buffy thought about searching London for a magic shop. Maybe she could do a spell herself, a simple one, just to let Willow know where she was. But after asking a few people if there were any occult shops around, she discovered that the practice was highly frowned upon and decided to be more discreet in the future. She didn't want to be burned at the stake or anything—if they still burned at the stake in 1879. But since Dorothea left her very little time to explore the city herself, it looked like she wouldn't be finding a spell book any time soon. She just hoped Willow was having better luck than she was.

* * *


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

You could grow accustomed to almost anything if you had no other choice. Buffy found out this the hard way. Although she would have thought that 1879 England would never be anything but alien to her within a week of her arrival she was pretty well acclimated. This didn't mean that she necessarily fit in with the place. Buffy figured it would take a lot longer than a few days for her to learn all the ins and outs of Victorian etiquette. But at least she could understand them when they talked to her now; she knew where all of her undergarments went without having to ask first (which went a long way in helping her to blend in). And before the end of two weeks she had even managed to land herself a job.

This surprised no one so much as Buffy herself. She had been in constant fear that she would not find a place for herself by the end of her one-month deadline and would end up on the streets. She had certainly not acquired any skills at the Institute during her time there, having failed spectacularly at all her lessons. Luckily for her, the advent of gainful employment had less to do with skills and more to do with her experience. In a conversation with her sewing teacher Buffy had mentioned something of her experience taking care of her mother while Joyce was ill. Really, she spoke of it only in passing when the teacher had asked her how her mother had died. But it was enough to give her teacher some amount of faith in her potential, and the woman remembered it a few days later when a servant of Mrs. Anne Hartley came to inquire about hiring a caretaker for his ailing mistress.

Buffy wasn't as thrilled by this as one might imagine. While it was a relief to know she wouldn't have to end up as a 19th century prostitute, she felt she had seen enough sickness and death to last a lifetime. And she didn't know the first thing about being a nurse. With Joyce it had mainly been following the doctor's orders about medicine and seeing to it Joyce was comfortable and well-fed. But she had a feeling caring for a Victorian woman suffering from consumption would be somewhat more difficult. Especially given the fact Buffy didn't even know what consumption was.

Not that she mentioned this to anyone. She knew the volunteers at the Chapman house would not grant her the luxury of refusing the position and they would certainly not be happy to hear that she was having doubts at her own capabilities. As Dorothea reminded her a dozen times a day, the reputation of the Institute depended on the workers it produced—and they would not tolerate anyone tarnishing said reputation by being less than exemplary in their new employment. Which meant that ready or not, Buffy was going to become a nursemaid.

They gave her the evening to pack her things, but no one bothered to tell Buffy about the family she would be living with in such a short time. All she knew was that there were only two of them, an elderly woman and her adult son, and that Buffy would be sent to them as a sort of nurse. The woman was an invalid and needed someone to care for her basic needs. From what Buffy gathered, they were a wealthy family who lived in London's more fashionable area. "New money," Dorothea called them, always with a disdainful little sniff. Though she herself could be called nothing more than working class, Dorothea had a low opinion of people who had recently come into their fortunes. Old money—family money—was different. It was class and breeding. But new money was gauche.

Buffy didn't give a damn about gauche. What mattered to her was what kind of people they were and how they would treat her. The other women at the Chapman Institute had told horror stories about the high class Londoners. Some of the wealthier set saw their servants as less than human, the girls avowed. Many of them claimed to have been forced to work from before dawn until long after midnight, often without meals. There were women who were cruel and abusive; men who forced themselves on their female servants for sexual satisfaction. And they all agreed there was nothing to be done about it. It was all part of life in the servant class and must be borne.

But despite these ominous warnings, Buffy set off the following day with a certain amount of hope. The Hartleys had been kind enough to send a carriage to take her to their home, which apparently was something special. At least all the other women at the house seemed surprised and a little envious when they saw the black closed carriage and beautifully dappled gray horses which drew it.

The coachman maneuvered through the busy London streets with expertise. A young man in fancy livery, he glanced back at Buffy several times before venturing to speak to her. When he did his voice was open and kind.

"You look as if you've no idea what to expect."

Buffy returned his smile, grateful for the distraction of conversation; she was growing more nervous with each passing block.

"To tell you the truth," she answered, "I don't really know what to do. I'm new here—from America. I'm afraid I might do something wrong and upset the Hartleys and I can't really afford to do that."

"Ah, you'll be all right," he assured her. "Mrs. Hartley is the sweetest woman alive; she won't hold it against you if you make a few mistakes. But if you want a bit of advice to get you started, I can help you with that, too."

"Please do! I need all the help I can get."

"All right. Once we get there I'm to drop you off at the carriage block before driving to the buggy house. Now that's in front of the house, but you don't want to enter by the front door. Walk around to the garden at the back of the house and ring the bell-pull at the rear door. A kitchen maid will answer. Don't ask her anything or say anything beyond telling her your name and that you wish to speak to Mr. Edward. He's the butler. Ms. Fitzpatrick is the housekeeper; she'll be the one who'll tell you what to do. But as Mr. Edward is over all the servants it makes a better impression if you ask to speak with him first. He might introduce you to the other staff before turning you over to Mrs. Fitzpatrick or he might not. But it's Mrs. Fitzpatrick who will then take you to Mrs. Hartley."

"What about the man?" Buffy asked. "Dorothea told me Mrs. Hartley has a son—?"

"Mr. William Hartley. He won't be there, he's gone on business. Anyway, it isn't him you have to impress. You won't be spending much time with him. Just be very polite to Mrs. Hartley. She'll tell you to call her Mrs. Anne, but don't dare do it until she says so."

Buffy leaned back in the plush leather seat, falling silent as she tried to remember all that the coachman had told her. Outside the carriage's window the cobbled streets were filled with people. They had left the seedier part of the city behind. All the houses on this street were freshly painted and rich with ornate gingerbread scrollwork. Well-kept lawns and carefully sculpted hedges abounded while short wrought-iron fences marked clearly the boundaries of each property. Buffy figured that no matter how you looked at it, she had taken a step up in the world—this world, anyway. And the Harteys could not possibly be worse than Dorothea.

* * *

* * *

The Hartley house was so imposing it was hard not to feel intimidated at first. Buffy went around to the rear of the building like Matthew, the coachman, told her to, yet once there she paused, dazzled by the ornate garden, the fountain, the rockeries and sculptures. Despite it not being the largest house on the block it was definitely among the most opulent and she shivered inwardly, wondering what the inhabitants of such a house would be like.

She rang the bell and within moments the door had opened, a tall and distinguished looking man appearing from behind it. He was quite elderly—maybe as much as seventy—yet his carriage was upright, his step lively. Buffy could tell by his outfit that he must be Mr. Edward, the butler. This surprised her a little; Matthew had said a maid would answer the door at back.

"Yes," the butler said, looking at her questioningly. His faded grey eyes were stern but not unkind, and there was even a bit of a smile around his lips.

"My name is Elizabeth Summers," Buffy told him shakily. "I'm here to care for the lady Anne."

It was the line taught to her by Dorothea and she was surprised that in her nervousness she was able to remember it at all. Mr. Edward inclined his head slightly and stepped back from the doorway, indicating she should enter.

"Of course," he said. "I was expecting you. I am Mr. Edward, the butler of this house."

Buffy wondered if she should shake his hand, but before she could decide Mr. Edward turned and motioned her to follow him. He led her through the expansive kitchen area swiftly, barely giving her a chance to look around at the stone floors and granite counters, the heavy coal ovens and stoves. There were other people in the room—many of them—but Mr. Edward didn't introduce her.

Out of the kitchen in the hallway was a narrow set of stairs that led them out of the basement-level and into the Hartleys' living quarters. At the top of these stairs a short, plump older woman was waiting.

"I thought I'd heard your arrival," the woman said in a heavy Irish accent. She smiled warmly at Buffy.

"This is Miss Summers," Mr. Edward told the woman. "Miss Summers, this is Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the housekeeper. And here I shall take my leave of you. Mrs. Fitzpatrick will show you the house and explain your duties."

He nodded briefly, smiled, and was gone before Buffy could think of a response.

"Well, now," Mrs. Fitzpatrick said. "I think now we'll have a bit of a tour and then introduce you to Mrs. Hartley. Have you any experience being a ladies' nurse?"

"Not exactly," Buffy admitted. "But I did take care of my mother when she was sick. She passed away not too long ago."

"That's too bad." Mrs. Fitzpatrick's face was full of sympathy. "Was it consumption?"

"No…it was something else."

"Well, you'll find Mrs. Hartley to be an easy charge. She's still able to get around; what she really wants is a bit of company. Poor thing. Since she got ill she's not had a great deal of visitors, folks being afraid of catching her sickness and all."

"Will she get better?"

"No, not her. The doctor said her lungs are hopelessly diseased. She won't be long for this world, I'm afraid. But she has some good days as well as her bad. It's Mr. William who's taking it badly; he's very much attached to his mother." She sighed. "Ah, well. Let's get on, shall we?"

Buffy followed obediently at Mrs. Fitzpatrick's heels. The latter was a much better tour guide than Dorothea had been at the Chapman house, and she seemed quite proud of the splendor of the home they were in. She made it a point to call attention to the velvet draperies in the parlor, the expensive hand-blown glass knickknacks on the shelves. The rich woodwork and expensive fabrics were impressive, and Buffy couldn't help but notice how much cleaner this house seemed to be than most. Despite the daily ritual of scrubbing and sweeping and dusting, the Chapman house had always seemed dull and a bit grimy. Buffy knew how much work must go into keeping this house immaculate. No wonder the Hartleys employed so many servants.

It wasn't until Buffy saw every room and was introduced to every other member of the staff that Mrs. Fitzpatrick finally took her to meet Mrs. Hartley. The lady was sitting in a rocking chair in her bedroom, knitting on what looked to be a piece of lace. When she saw Buffy she smiled warmly.

"My dear child," she said once introductions were made. "I'm so pleased to meet you. Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you." Buffy sat awkwardly in a chair across from Mrs. Hartley.

"I suppose Mrs. Fitzpatrick has told you a bit about why you are here?"

"A little."

"Good. Well, I should tell you I don't need a great deal of looking after. Not enough to employ a full-time nurse, at any rate. But William was quite insistent that I should have someone with me in his absence. It was he that hired you, not I. He wanted to be here himself to welcome you, but unfortunately he had to attend to some business at our estate and wasn't able to stay beyond yesterday morning. He had been planning to catch a later train, but there was a problem with the tenants and he couldn't wait."

"Tenants?"

"We let out land to farmers in the country. Our own estate is there as well. William visits it as often as he can to make sure the overseer is attending to everything correctly, but he hasn't been able to for quite some time. And then there was a problem with the tenants paying their rents this month, so…"

Buffy looked at her new employer curiously as she spoke. Anne Hartley was an older lady, though just how old it was difficult to tell due to her illness. Her hair was grey and her face lined and very thin. It was obvious that her sickness had sapped much of her strength and youth, and yet her spirit seemed unfazed by the death that awaited her. Her blue eyes were tranquil and sweet. And despite the fact that she was many years older than Joyce, there was something in Anne that reminded Buffy strongly of her mother.

This feeling was especially pronounced when Anne leaned across the space separating them and grabbed her hand. "Oh, I am so glad you're here! I can do much for myself yet—and if I couldn't there are the servants. But it has been quite lonely with William away so much at his business and no one else to talk to. I want you to see me not as a mistress but as a friend and call me 'Anne' right from the start. What do you think?"

And Buffy overwhelmed at the kindness of this motherly woman, could only nod in gratitude.

* * *


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Compared to the Chapman Institute, the Hartley house was like living in the lap of luxury. In fact, had Buffy been a normal girl—or at least, a girl from that era—then it would have been the very height of opulence and pleasure. The Hartleys were, among other things, very rich. And in keeping with the customs of the day they liked to invest their riches in expensive material possessions. Their home had every comfort of the day: featherbeds and gas lights, iceboxes and—best of all, in Buffy's opinion—daily baths. Real, all over body baths taken in a real bath tub. (True the bathwater still had to be heated on the stove and then hauled to the tub, but now there were servants to do this for her.) And the soap was bought from the chemist's shop, not homemade like at the Chapman house. It smelled like sandalwood instead of rancid fat and it actually came in bar form, not a slimy brown pile.

Buffy had learned to appreciate things like this, but the new millennium was strong in her memory and she missed too many modern conveniences to be able to fully appreciate her situation. After all, no matter how wealthy the Hartleys were there were many, many things that were simply not accessible in 1879—they hadn't been invented yet. Things like microwaves, hot running water, flushing toilets, television, tampons, and a thousand other things Buffy had once taken for granted. Her familiarity with such luxuries kept her from being truly satisfied on what was for the Victorian age an excellent house.

Of course, Buffy felt that she could live without anything—even tampons—so long as she had kindness. Kindness was something she had come to treasure, not having found an overabundance of it since her arrival in this place. And Anne Hartley was very kind. Though Buffy had technically been hired as a nurse by virtue of her experience with Joyce, it soon became quite clear that a nurse was not what the lady of the house truly required. She was sick, there was no doubt about that. But she was an uncomplaining sort of patient, loath to lie abed and have others wait on her. Most days she felt well enough to knit or work needlepoint, and sometimes they even went out for the day—shopping and then to lunch at a restaurant, sometimes to a play. These outings had a heavy cost afterward, as Anne's cough was much aggravated by the cold air. But they were wonderful while they lasted. And Anne swore they did her good in the long run.

Nighttime was more difficult because she often fell to fits of coughing when she lay down. The first time this happened Buffy fell to pieces. She had never heard anyone cough that way: gasping and choking, sometimes spitting up blood. It was frightening. But the doctor had prescribed a syrup to help soothe the worst of it, and she would eventually learn to watch for the symptoms of an attack early on so that she could catch it before it became too severe.

Though she was in no way clingy or needy, Anne was clearly a woman who enjoyed company and Buffy's main role in the Hartley household was to supply her with the companionship she craved. Since her illness the amount of callers at the house had dwindled to a paltry few, as did the invitations. And she was often not well enough to go out to the dinners and parties she did get invited to. It was obvious that she was hungry for conversation, particularly female conversation. And even though Buffy was her nurse and technically a servant, Anne treated her as more of a friend. She even wanted Buffy to eat with her in the beautiful dining room, not in the servants' kitchen "down below," which would be her customary place. Buffy was too ignorant of the time period to understand the significance of this, but it was cause for a great deal of gossip amongst the other servants.

Anne never complained about her condition, the inexorable fate which was cutting her life short in such a torturous way—well and women did not, in that day and age, bore their friends with the paltry details of impending death. But she did, just once and in a moment of great weakness, confide to Buffy that life had become a little tedious since her diagnoses. William was away much of the day and he didn't like to go out even when he could for fear that she would be struck ill. On the few occasions he consented to accompany her to a concert or dinner he worried about her too much for either of them to really enjoy it. It was a hard thing getting used to a life of confinement—she who had once been so active in society. It was, she admitted, harder even than the thought of dying.

But more than even this she missed her house—her _real_ house—the house at the country estate. It had been more of a home to her than the London house, which before they had used only during the London social season. The estate was beautiful, she assured her young nurse. Fields of golden wheat and long stretches of green pasture punctuated here and there by clumps of trees and shrubs. The house was not quite as luxurious as this one…more of a large house than a mansion. But it was comfortable amid the fresh air and quiet of the countryside. Had the doctor not been so insistent—and had William not been so quick to obey him—Anne said she felt she would never have left.

"Why did you have to leave?" Buffy asked, thereby surprising Anne with the ignorance of her nurse.

"The southern end of the estate was a bog," she explained. "And the night air which rose from the wetland aggravated my condition. The doctor said a drier climate would suit much better—he suggested we sell out and go to America of all things! Apparently, the prairies in the west are quite famous for curing consumption. But that was out of the question; it is hard enough on poor William to leave the countryside and live in London…but to uproot him to a new country! I should never allow that. So the doctor suggested we move to this house so we could be closer to the hospital and away from the marsh. It has been quite hard on us both, I'm afraid. But William is such a dear; he has never once complained or hinted that he is unhappy here."

Anne talked a lot about William, this son Buffy had not yet met. It was obvious that she was incredibly fond of him and that they were very close. Which begged the question, why had he left her all alone here to attend to business "back home" on the country estate? Buffy knew she would never have left Joyce alone while she was ill, not for that long. And she certainly would not have put her mother under the care of a nurse she had never met. It was William who had hired her, as Anne had explained. But he had hired her through conversations with the vicar, a detailed explanation of what he wanted. He had never so much as asked to speak to her.

It seemed heartless, but Buffy didn't say so. Anne seemed relieved her son had gone to the country for all that she missed him. Apparently, it was the first time he had gone in several months, he was that worried about her condition he was loath to go as often as he should. And had it not been for the problems on the estate he would not have gone this time, Anne said. She seemed anxious about him, afraid that her illness was robbing him of his freedom, his youth. It seemed unfair that she spent such a great portion of her time worrying about him when she was the one who was ill.

Buffy felt very protective of Anne even though she had known her just a short time. But the lady reminded her of Joyce, so gentle and sensitive. And generous. On Buffy's third day at the Hartley house Anne called a dressmaker in to make new dresses for her nurse. Pretty dresses. Dresses that fit properly, unlike the ones that had come from the constable's wife and out of the charity bin at Chapman's. And they would be ready in just two weeks because Anne had ordered them to rush. Buffy was delighted by the prospect of new, better-fitting clothing, but she felt a little guilty that Anne was paying so much money for them. It seemed enough to be living here for free, eating her food and getting paid for the small things she did to help. But twelve new dresses from a fashionable dressmaker seemed too much; it made her feel like she was taking advantage of her new employer.

Anne brushed the concerns away with a wave of her thin hand. "Don't be silly, Elizabeth. It isn't as though I'm buying you silk ball gowns. But a young lady should dress becomingly, particularly if she working in a home of this caliber. It is nothing, a trifle."

But the other servants of the house all wore uniforms.

* * *

* * *

It was the following day that the telegraph came.

Buffy was in the process of being fitted for her new dresses—an achingly long and surprisingly intimate procedure that made her wonder if looking good was actually worth all the trouble. It didn't help that so far the dresses looked more like sheets held together with straight pins than real garments. She fidgeted and sighed until the seamstress scolded and hit her with the measuring tape.

"I can't very well finish the dresses in such a short time if you don't help me," she complained. "Now we've done with this one—off with it and on with the next. There're four more before we're done for the afternoon."

Dutifully Buffy stripped off the makeshift dress, mindful of the pins around the hem, and reached for the next one. She was just pulling it over her head when Anne rushed in, a sheet of paper clutched in one pale hand.

"Look!" she said, waving the paper. Pink spots of excitement stained her cheeks. "I've had a telegraph from William today!"

William. The phantom son. Buffy was growing more comfortable to the idea of him—a man who existed and commanded his mother's love but had yet to appear in the house. He did write faithfully, every day it seemed, for a letter arrived almost that frequently. Yet Buffy felt that a truly loving son would not have left his sick mother in the care of strangers. She certainly would not have left Joyce alone with someone she didn't know—certainly for not as long a period of time as five days.

Not that she said any of this to Anne. Whatever his shortcomings it was obvious Mrs. Hartley adored her son and that he could do no wrong in her eyes. Buffy knew her employer would certainly not thank her for any criticism to William. So she bit her tongue and smiled at Anne from the glass as the dressmaker poked and prodded about her person, raising hems and tucking seams.

"A telegraph," she said, trying to infuse some genuine interest into her tone. "Is everything all right?" Because now she had been here long enough to know that telegraphy was expensive and generally saved for important occasions.

"He's splendid, thank you for asking. He was simply afraid a letter by post might not reach us in time."

"In time for what?"

"Why his arrival, of course." Anne's eyes were sparkling. He is coming home! And in just two days' time. We have so much to do to prepare. He is taking the train and shall arrive at six o'clock, if it isn't late. Just in time for a nice dinner—and he writes he wants to have dinner with us, Elizabeth. He wants to meet the young lady of whom I speak so highly. We'll have beef Wellington, it's his favorite—oh, and I do wish your dresses could be done by then. Miss Simms, do you think, perhaps, you could have just one—?"

Buffy false smile felt like it was cracking her face. She didn't want William to come home, beef Wellington or not. She had fallen into a comfortable routine here; she knew everyone and knew what was expected of her. A new person would spoil the even tenor of her days. And she had been having such a good time with Anne; it was almost like having her own mother back. She didn't want some guy she didn't know coming in and spoiling everything. He'd take up all of Anne's time, maybe resent the money she'd spent on Buffy's new clothes. And he was unmarried. She'd heard some gruesome tales from the girls at the job house about what some of the bachelor masters would try to force on their female servants. Even some of the married ones. If this William came in expecting to use her for a playmate he'd better think again.

The last thought made her blanch. The idea of him attempting to force himself on her was nothing; she could fight off any mortal man without so much as breaking a sweat. But greater was the fear that he would resent her for denying him. Suppose he threw her out? He was the one who ran the house after all. Anne had said that much. And he had hired her. If he became angry or even if he simply just didn't like her, he had the power to make her leave. And if she left where would she go? Would the job house take her back if she failed to make this one work? Even if it did there were no guarantees her next job would be different. London was probably filled with loser men using maids as concubines and she'd seen firsthand while running errands for Anne how cruelly some mistresses treated their servants. The last thing she wanted was to be slaving after some horny old man and his bitchy wife.

As if reading her thoughts Anne leaned in her chair to touch Buffy's arm—infuriating the seamstress, who was trying to pin that sleeve. She pulled back hastily, smiling an apology to Miss Simms while at the same time trying to reassure Buffy.

"Don't be afraid, Elizabeth. William will love you, I am sure of it." She sat back in her chair and smiled with some inner, secret pleasure, adding again: "He will just love you."

* * *

* * *

Buffy had heard the term "lord of the manor" before, but she had never fully understood it until now. It was obvious, from everything she had seen so far, that William Hartley was lord of the manor, the head of Hartley house and a most important person. This had been suggested to her by Anne's frequent mention of him and emphasized by the painstaking preparations made for his arrival. Everything was done to his pleasure and everything must be perfect upon his return.

The first of Buffy's dresses was hurriedly completed and delivered on Thursday morning, and Anne told Buffy—tactfully but in no uncertain terms—that she was to wear it that afternoon for William's homecoming. She was told, as well, to "take extra special preparations" in her toilette. Just as if she wasn't always careful to look decent.

Still, the new dress was very becoming. It was cream-colored, trimmed in blue ruffle. The collar was low enough to see the barest hint of her breast and the waist was tight; the skirt flowed beautifully over a small bustle flounced with ribbons. And beneath it was the loveliest petticoat trimmed in delicate handmade Irish lace. The layers of clothes were hot and truth be told, very uncomfortable. And the corsets were torture devices, making it almost impossible to draw a breath. But in spite of this—and the nervous butterflies that seemed to be taking flight in her stomach—Buffy couldn't help being pleased by the overall result. If she had to live in this God-forsaken place at least she could look this nice.

She had combed her hair and used curl-papers and hot tongs to make little ringlets around her face while she pulled the rest up in a chignon at the back of her head. Heavy make-up wasn't allowed in Victorian high society—only whores and "loose" women wore it—but Buffy did put on a little rose-scented cologne and a touch of colored salve on her lips. By the time she finished it was almost two o'clock and Anne was calling her.

They sat in the parlor, side by side on the divan, awaiting his arrival. Anne had been ill the night before and still looked very pale and drawn, yet her eyes betrayed no trace of weariness. Buffy noticed that her gaze kept shifting to the mantle clock as if impatient for the minutes to pass. Her thin, cold hand grasped Buffy's comfortingly.

"It's all right, dear. Don't be nervous."

Buffy smiled back wanly but in truth her uneasy shifting had less to do with nerves and more to do with the whalebone stay that was stabbing directly into the left side of her ribcage. Because her new dresses were "fitted" she had to lace her stays up tighter with them than with the castoffs she had once worn, and after hours of not being able to draw a proper breath or breathe without excruciating pain, her delight in the new frocks was beginning to fade. She flopped back and sighed heavily, wishing for blue jeans and T-shirts.

There was a sudden scuffling sound out in the foyer accompanied by men's voices, and before Mr. Edward could even announce William's arrival, Anne was out of her seat and rushing to meet her son. Buffy followed behind, somewhat less enthusiastically, and waited off to one side as Anne clasped the well-dressed, not-too-tall man in her arms and welcomed him home.

"I missed you, too, Mother," he said, hugging her lightly. "And has everything been fine here while I was away?"

"Oh, lovely. Dr. Gull is most surprised at how well I'm handling the cold season." Anne drew away from him, turning slightly so that she could motion Buffy forward. "And now, William, you must meet the most recent addition to our household: Miss Elizabeth Summers."

The man—no longer blocked from view by his mother—offered Buffy a rather tentative smile. "Of course," he said a trifle shyly. "Mother has been most complimentary of you in her letters. I am pleased to finally meet you."

It was Buffy's cue to incline her head with ladylike timidity and say something kind in return. Instead she gave him a gaping and very unladylike stare. It took her brain a moment to fully process what she was seeing and then, when it did, she was left devoid of speech. William Hartley—Lord of the Manor, King of the Castle, pride of his mother's heart—was not the stranger she had thought he would be. He was more than familiar to her: he was the killer, the torturer, the bane of her existence.

He was Spike.

* * *


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Sometime in the next twelve months, he would be a killer. In a hundred and twenty some odd years, he would be compact and muscular, bleached and scarred. Clad in black leather. Snarky. In love with her.

Right now, he was none of those things.

Buffy's eyes darted from the locks of light brown hair that tumbled over his forehead to his wire-rimmed spectacles, his high-collared shirt and neat three-piece suit. His skin glowed with good health though not a good tan, and there were no dark circles beneath his eyes. He was thinner than his vampire counterpart, too, and he carried himself with far less confidence. More than anything, it was the last that threw her. Spike was so arrogant—he moved with the easy, dangerous grace of a lion on the veld. He did not draw his shoulders up against his neck and avoid eye contact. This man was light-years away from his punk-goth vampire counterpart. He was so different, in fact, that she almost felt another twinge of uncertainty that this could actually be the same person.

But behind the glare of his spectacles, William's eyes were a deep, cloudy blue—almond-shaped and long-lashed. And there was just no mistaking those cheekbones.

Anne elbowed Buffy sharply in the ribs—an indication she was not pleased with the cool reception the new servant was giving her beloved son. Buffy quickly pulled herself out of her reverie and made an attempt to rectify matters.

"Sorry," she told William. "Don't mind me; I'm just a little wacked. I'm really pleased to meet you. Your mother talks about you a lot."

William looked at his mother, silently asking the question. _Wacked?_

Anne shrugged helplessly.

Flushing slightly under her intense stare, William struggled to find some response to Buffy's bizarre comments. "Ah, yes—ah, yes. Very pleased to meet you also. I trust you've been comfortable…?"

Wiggling away from Anne's bony elbow, Buffy babbled a confused response. "Oh, yeah—way comfortable. You've got a great house—"

Unsure of what else to do, she stuck out her hand for him to shake. Evidently, this was the wrong thing, because he glanced anxiously at his mother and then sidestepped, clumsily avoiding the proffered appendage.

"Yes—quite," he said shortly. He turned to Anne. "I feel rather tired after the train journey, Mother. I shall retire to my room until dinner. See to it James brings in the luggage, will you?"

"Of course, dear." Though Anne's lips were in a straight line, Buffy thought she could see a hint of amusement in the older woman's eyes. Though what in God's name Anne would be amused about was beyond her.

With a stiff smile and a slight nod to Buffy—who was still staring at her extended hand in bewilderment—William retreated to the stairway. He took the steps two at a time, presumably to put distance between himself and his new acquaintance all the more quickly.

Buffy watched his departure with bemusement, finally dropping her hand when he disappeared around corner of the landing.

"Okay...Well, obviously I repulse him."

"Nonsense," Anne laughed. "He's merely too much of a gentleman to take such liberties when he doesn't know you."

"Liberties?" Buffy echoed blankly.

"Taking your hand. I was quite surprised that you would offer it." Anne looked puzzled. "Is it customary in America?"

"Yeah. Shaking a person's hand isn't exactly a—a liberty in America. More like a hello-type polite greeting thing."

"I have heard that young people are quite forward there," Anne said. She sighed as though this were a pity and then, just as suddenly, brightened again. "But William did like you a great deal," she added. "I could tell."

"I'm glad someone could," Buffy muttered.

* * *

* * *

He was staring at her.

Buffy tried to keep her attention on the beef Wellington, but it wasn't easy with him staring at her like that. He'd been staring all through dinner. Well, not exactly staring. More like glancing. Frequently. She could feel his eyes on her, but when she turned to catch him in the act, he was always looking at his plate or in the middle of a conversation with his mother. It was unnerving.

To be perfectly fair, Buffy was doing her fair share of glancing, too. She considered it more justified, however, based on the fact that although he didn't have the slightest idea of who she was, she knew him...or, at least, she knew who he would eventually become. Spike, of course she knew him. Hell, he'd chained her to a wall to declare his love for her just a couple of months before. Threatened to let Dru kill her if she didn't give him love in return. The bastard.

Now he was sitting across Anne's oblong cherry wood dining table, picking at his dinner and watching her furtively.

God help her, how did she end up in this mess? It was bad enough to be stuck in the 19th century with no discernable way home. But to be stuck with someone who may or may not be a sociopath and who was definitely teetering on the brink of vampirism? That was a whole new level of badness. Of course, badness wasn't exactly an alien concept where Spike was involved.

She kept thinking of him leaning back in his chair at the Bronze, grinning at her in that cocky, wicked way.

_What can I tell you, baby? I've always been bad._

Then there was Giles, reading Spike's history from some moldy old book—way back when Spike was enough of a threat for them to care about his history.

_He's known as William the Bloody. He earned his nickname by torturing his victims with railroad spikes._

Ugh. Did that mean that he was William the Bloody before he was the railroad-spike-torturing vampire? If so, where on earth did he pick up _that_ nickname? Sounded like something a pirate or a Jack the Ripper type Victorian serial killer would be called. Not the type of moniker given to a proper gentleman of that era by his friends. And Buffy doubted Anne would come up with something like that as a pet name for her dear boy. That meant there was probably something up with sweet William. Or would be very soon.

And he was signing her paycheck. Great.

Buffy speared a piece of beef angrily, shooting another glance across the table at him. He didn't _look_ all that full of badness like Spike had insinuated. Quite the opposite, actually. With his spectacles and tightly buttoned-up suit, he actually reminded her of Giles. Bookish and awkward. However, that might just be an act put on for Mummy's benefit. Hey, Jeffrey Dahmer didn't exactly look like the Predator either. Sometimes it was the geeky ones you really had to look out for.

They didn't get much geekier than William. When she got home, she was totally going to make fun of Spike for that hair.

If she got home.

The tines of Buffy's fork screeched against the plate as she dropped the implement and picked up her napkin. She couldn't eat like this—not with him looking at her. Not to mention the fact that Anne was gushing on about how lucky they were that William was able to come home now. (It's soon to be Christmas, after all.) Which reminded Buffy of exactly long she had been stuck in London, and in all that time there had been no word—no sign at all—to show that she was any closer to getting home now than on the day she arrived. The thought made her feel suddenly ill with panic.

"May I be excused?"

Anne looked at her anxiously. "Well, of course you may be, dear. But I've ordered a lovely chocolate mousse for dessert…"

"Thank you, but I'm not very hungry." She just wanted to get away.

"Aren't you well?" Anne pressed. "Should I send for the doctor—?"

"I'm fine—"

"Perhaps it is a headache from the weather?" William suggested suddenly, his eyes on his plate. "I've a bit of one myself. The cold rains…"

"That's it," Buffy said, eagerly. "Just a headache. Once I rest in the dark for a while, I'm sure it will be fine."

"Oh." Anne looked disappointed. "Well, do rest for a bit then. I hope you feel better shortly—and let the servants know if there is anything you need."

"I will. Thank you."

Buffy rose from the table. On her way out of the room, she threw William a small smile, feeling both grateful for his assistance and a bit confused by what it meant. But he didn't return the gesture. He wasn't looking at her at all.

* * *

* * *

Later, as she lay stretched out in bed, staring at the ceiling, Buffy chanced to overhear them talking. They were down the hallway a bit and probably didn't realize how their voices would carry. Not that they were saying anything particularly offensive, but they were talking about her. Buffy sat up in the dark and strained her ears to better catch every word.

"…seems to getting on then?" William's voice asked faintly.

"Oh, yes." Anne's words were clearer and more distinct than her son's. "She is an angel, a real help to me. You must remember to recommend the Institute to anyone looking for a fine girl servant."

"She dresses very well for a servant." Buffy clutched the sheet in the dark. Damn it, she knew he'd be pissed off about the clothes.

But Anne didn't seem concerned.

"She was dressed like the rag man's daughter, dear. Said all of her own clothes had been stolen from her and all she had was what they gave her at Chapman's. I couldn't have her in the house looking like a waif, could I?"

To Buffy's surprise, William chuckled. "Of course not, Mother."

There was a long pause, and she knew that he was hugging her, maybe a careless, one-armed hug like she had once given her own mother. Whatever else he might be—or would be, in the future—it was obvious William did have a great deal of love for his mum. Buffy hugged herself in the dark, and she felt a sharp dart of jealousy. Because Spike had still had his mother when he was—what? Twenty-five? Thirty?—and hers was dead. Yet he was the one who'd end up murdered, his body the vessel for a sociopathic vampire.

There was no sense to life.

When Anne spoke again, her voice was much closer; it startled Buffy.

"But you do like her, don't you, dear? You do think she's…" Her voice trailed away, leaving Buffy to wonder what they thought she was.

William's voice was closer, too, but still farther away than Anne's. He sounded as though he were turning off somewhere, maybe about to go into a room. The library, perhaps. It was close by.

"Of course, I like her, Mother," he said. His voice had a catch in it, something shy and almost sad—and certainly not in keeping with her image of Spike.

But this wasn't Spike. Was it?

She expected them to say more; instead, there was the gentle click of a door closing, and then Anne's footsteps began padding softly closer. A moment later, she was knocking on Buffy's bedroom door.

Buffy threw her wrap around her shoulders (she was learning) before calling, "Come in."

Anne barely cracked the door, peeping her head in through the opening almost tentatively. "Are you still feeling ill, Elizabeth?"

"No. I'm much better, thank you." Buffy glanced at the clock and saw with a shock that it was almost ten. No wonder, then, that Anne was looking so worn.

"And you?" she asked her employer. "How do you feel? Do you need anything—?"

"Oh, no. I feel quite well, thank you. I was just wondering if perhaps you would like me to tell Livvy to bring you a cup of tea with milk in it. William often has one before he retires; it is very good for helping one sleep."

"Sure—I mean, yes. Thanks."

But she couldn't help wondering why it was that William was having a hard time going to sleep.

* * *

* * *

Generally when he could not sleep, William found that an hour or two spent in the library reading a good book was just the thing to relax him. But not now. For the past few weeks, his sleep patterns had been much disturbed, due in no small part to the new creature who resided in his house. He'd been nervous about hiring her in the first place. His mother needed a companion in the home, as well as someone to help her with the tasks she was no longer able to perform herself. And this young girl…Miss Summers…seemed well qualified. He wasn't worried about _that_. Not her skills at all. Instead, there was the concern over leaving for such an extended period, even before she had arrived. He had debated about this for well over a week, but it had seemed the best option. He needed to visit the estate anyway; he was long overdue. And—and—

Now, he wondered if he had made a mistake. If, perhaps, he should have allowed her to acquaint herself with him at the same pace that she had his mother. Having grown accustomed to life in the house without him, he thought she now seemed uneasy with his presence. Almost afraid. The very notion troubled him, for he did not want her to be afraid of him. He did not want any woman to be afraid of him.

Agitated, he paced the length of the room, pausing periodically to finger the books that lined the shelves. A loving and almost regretful gesture, because he had missed them while he was away, and had looked forward to reading the new ones that had been recently added to the collection. However, he knew that trying to immerse himself in literature or poetry was pointless; his mind was too unsettled at the moment. At a loss as to what else to do, he picked up the stack of mail that Edward had left in its usual place on his desk. He rifled through the letters with only the mildest of interest—most of them were bills and not worth opening, since the accountant was responsible for them—until, suddenly, he came across a heavy, cream-colored envelope. Slitting the top with his silver letter-opener, he drew out a stiff card.

He knew what it was, of course. He had been waiting for this piece of correspondence for weeks now. Yet his own reaction to its arrival struck him with surprise. There was a sudden and decided lack of enthusiasm for the invitation contained within, where before there had been excitement, mild fear that he might not be included. Confused, he sank down upon his desk chair, rereading the card as if in the hope that his attitude toward it would change. But it did not.

He traced his fingertip over the host's elaborate signature. Cecily. How often she had invaded his thoughts since he had come to London. He had known her for quite some time; their mothers were close friends. Yet he had paid her little mind before this past autumn. It had been a few months since he had seen her, and she had changed considerably in that time. She had always been lovely, of course, but some sudden change had left her even more so. Big, dark eyes and glossy curls…a quivering, curving mouth. She was soft-spoken and womanly, yet quite sharp. She was one of the very few women he knew, who could quote Shakespeare and discuss Dickens in more than the most rudimentary way. Their paths had crossed quite often that season, and although the conversation had been minimal, it was enough to impress him.

He had grown quite fond of Cecily Underwood.

When he reached for his fountain pen to write a response, however, his fingers hovered over the paper, undecided. There was so much change in the household as of late. Perhaps, it was better to remain in the home until the upheaval was complete. The young lady—the new nurse—

His teeth bit into his bottom lip, and his forehead creased slightly as he considered the matter. Finally, he gave himself a little shake. How silly of him to worry so. Miss Summers had already proven herself a satisfactory caretaker, and his presence would only fret her. Perhaps, he would get in the way. At any rate, he should not be wasting so much time concerning himself with the affairs of the young woman who had behaved so strangely at their first meeting. Regardless of the circumstances that had compelled him to bring her here, she was still, after all, only a servant.

He pressed his pen to the paper and wrote his reply.

* * *


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

The following morning, Buffy was late to breakfast. She hadn't slept well the night before and had snored right through her first wake-up call. Actually, she might have slept right through the second wake-up call too, if Livvy, the ladies' maid, had not insisted that the breakfast schedule would be disrupted by her tardiness. By the time she rolled out of bed, she was already ten minutes late, and it wasn't as if she could just throw on a pair of jeans and head downstairs. The Victorian dress combinations were about as complicated as an electrical schematic; she couldn't very well be expected to remember exactly where to put each bit of underwear when she was still sleepy. Nor could she fully dress herself without the help of at least one other person, because of the stupid corsets. A couple of weeks before, she'd tried leaving off the corset; but Anne had noticed it and lectured her for what seemed like hours on the importance of dressing like a lady. At any rate, the new dresses would not fit her without her waist being cinched up, so she really had no choice. By the time she'd finished dressing and combing her hair, Anne and William were already seated at the table—and if appearances were anything to go on, they seemed to be having some kind of argument.

"William, _please_ don't be so stodgy," Anne was wheedling him. "I haven't had an evening out in so long—"

"Well, and isn't there reason enough for that?" he asked. "You know the doctor said that the night air is most aggravating to your condition…"

Embarrassed to have walked in on such a personal scene, Buffy purposely kicked the doorframe with the side of her shoe as she entered the room, so that they would notice her. She didn't want it to appear that she was trying to eavesdrop on them.

When they saw her, the argument ceased immediately, and William stood up. The first time he had done this, the night before, Buffy had been startled. The footman was there to pull out her chair and arrange her napkin; she didn't understand why William would have to get up when she came in. However, a quick glance at the etiquette guide Anne had given her explained that it was merely another meaningless gesture of politeness and respect that 19th century men showed women, and this morning, it ceased to bother her. Instead, she returned their wishes for a good morning and slid into her chair. William waited until the footman had positioned her chair and placed her napkin in her lap, and then he sat down, too.

"Good morning, dear," Anne greeted her. "I trust you had a good night?"

"Yes, thank you." Buffy took a sip from her water goblet and then indicated the windows. "It stopped raining."

"Not a moment too soon, either. I have a very specific reason for wanting fine weather this evening." William shot her a disappointed look from across the table, but Anne ignored it completely, focusing instead on winning Buffy to her side. "There is a show tonight at St. James' Theatre. _A Midsummer Night's Dream._ Just the thing to warm us on a dreary winter evening. Doesn't it sound lovely?"

Buffy had the uncomfortable feeling she had just been dragged into their argument. She glanced over at William, who was staring at her. "I—I guess it sounds all right."

"And since the rain has stopped, there should be no additional problems with my cough, so long as I take my syrups and bundle up well?" Anne coaxed.

Buffy understood where she was coming from. It was bad enough to be ill, downright unbearable to be ill and a prisoner in her own house. Anyway, why would evening air be worse on her cough than air during the day? How was it different? It couldn't be worse on her than the depressing, housebound feeling she had now. Buffy raised her chin and met William's gaze.

"I think it would be perfectly all right," she said staunchly.

There was a pause as the footman began filling plates, but as soon as he was finished, Anne spoke again.

"Well, then that is decided. I'll send out someone to purchase the tickets—Matthew, possibly. There should be some left for sale yet. Usually, there are. And the curtain call is not until seven, so the three of us will have plenty of time to ready ourselves."

Buffy dropped her rasher of bacon. "The three of us?"

"Of course, you shall go with us," Anne said.

"Oh…of course." Glumly, Buffy picked at her plate. She hated plays; she hated Shakespeare; and she wasn't feeling too fond of William. What an evening it would be.

William, meanwhile, set down his water goblet with a most ungentlemanly thump. "I really don't think this is a good idea, Mother." He ignored Buffy completely, and for some reason this annoyed her, goading her into the argument in spite of herself.

"It's a better idea than forcing her to sit in the parlor like she's already attending her own wake," she snapped at him. "She's sick, not dead."

He blanched, as if the idea of her being dead was more than he could bear. "Walking about in the winter evening could make her more ill. The doctor was quite clear on this. We need to keep her out of the night air. We need to be careful—"

"But we are being careful," Anne insisted. "William, we are in London, are we not? We rearranged our lives…we left our home. How much more careful must we be?"

"As careful as is necessary to keep you safe," he insisted.

Her expression softened, though it was obvious Anne's resolve was intact. She answered, "I am tired of being safe, William. I want to enjoy the time I have left."

William nodded, his eyes cast down.

"All right," he said thickly. "Do as you like." Abruptly, he pushed his chair back from the table. "Excuse me, but I find that I am no longer hungry. Enjoy your meal."

The two women were silent as they watched his departure. Buffy could tell that Anne was upset, in spite of the cheerful tone of voice she used when she said, "It is all right. He won't be angry for long. He is just…concerned."

Buffy nodded in agreement, but she didn't speak. She picked up her bacon again and nibbled at it, but she didn't feel so hungry now.

* * *

* * *

After breakfast, Buffy went looking for him.

She did not really want to talk to him; he still made her incredibly uncomfortable. Nor did she want to feel sorry for him, not when her mind still stubbornly linked him with the crazy vampire of the future. But she couldn't help it, after the scene at the breakfast table, because she understood his reasoning behind wanting to keep Anne safe at home. When Joyce was sick, Buffy had felt pretty much the same way—follow the doctor's orders; don't take chances; stay inside; rest, rest, rest. And even if the doctor's orders about night air were completely ludicrous, they were still doctor's orders. After all, this was 1879…people had very limited knowledge about medicine and illness. She couldn't really blame him for being worried, not when she had gone through almost the same thing recently. And while Spike might be a bloodsucking fiend, William had done nothing to suggest that he was anything but what Anne claimed: a gentle-natured, caring, and most dutiful son. Whatever her own suspicions about him were, Buffy knew it wasn't fair to judge him for the crimes committed by Spike. Nor was it fair to attack him for having the same fears about his sick mother that she had about hers. She figured whether she wanted to or not, she probably needed to apologize for her behavior.

She didn't have to spend a great deal of time looking for him; William was in the first place Buffy thought to check. The library. She figured that the Giles-like librarian look couldn't be an accident. Must be a trait of British men. He probably spent all of his free time buried under books, too.

He wasn't buried under books now, however. He was standing by the window, staring out onto the garden. It was only the presence of a maid raking the fireplace that allowed him to agree to her request for entry. Otherwise, they would have been alone and most improper. Of course, Buffy wasn't aware of any of this. He turned from the window to face her, and she edged nervously into the room, taking care to keep a certain amount of distance between them.

"Yes, Miss Summers?" he asked, when she didn't speak right away. His tone was low and gentle, a little sad. Buffy was surprised. She'd figured he would be angry with her.

"I—I just wanted to apologize," she stammered uneasily. "I was completely out of line at breakfast…saying that to you. I'm sorry."

"Oh…ah…pray don't be. It is all right." He looked straight into her eyes—but for just a second. "You were…quite right. I do behave rather like a jailor to Mother; I am overprotective. I simply…"

"Don't want anything bad to happen to her?" Buffy suggested.

"Yes. I'm sure you are already aware of this, but h—her chances of surviving her illness are not good. I just…I want to keep her with me for as long as I can, and that means following the doctor's instructions."

"Well, yeah. In theory," said Buffy.

He tilted his head at her, clearly confused. "Pardon me?"

"Well…you could keep her inside and feed her medicine and do everything the doctor tells you. But if she isn't happy, it won't help a bit. See, when my mom was sick, I read this article the doctor gave me…and it said that the more optimistic a patient's attitude is, then the greater chance they have for recovery. Like, if they do nothing but lay around, thinking they're going to die, then they probably will—and soon. But if they think 'I'm going to fight this, and I'm going to live' then their odds for living are much better. Maybe they'll still die from the sickness…but not as soon. And their quality of life will be much better."

Intrigued, William took a step closer to her. "I never heard of that," he said softly.

"Well, it's new. And an American thing, I think."

"I see. And did your mother—?"

"She died, but not from her illness. She had can—an illness that required the doctors to operate on her brain. She died due to complications after surgery. Not much positive thinking could've done for her there, I guess."

"I am sorry," he told her. And he actually looked it.

"It's all right—" Buffy caught herself and laughed bitterly. "Well, no it isn't. But I'm surviving, so I guess that means _I'm_ all right."

Another step toward her.

"Mother wrote to me that you are very brave. I see now that it was an understatement."

Buffy resisted the urge to back away from him. He wasn't Spike. She knew he wasn't Spike. But something in her just couldn't allow her to trust him. Even if the suspicions about his character weren't fair, she still had them. And there was something so strange about him, about the way he was looking at her. Something familiar in the way his head tilted to the right and his eyes narrowed as though he were trying to see something inside her—something she wanted to keep hidden. He wasn't Spike, but the expression on his face was Spike all over—the same expression Spike had sported when he chained her up and commanded her to tell him that there was a chance. Really, it was kind of creepy.

She brushed back an errant lock of hair and smiled nervously. "No, not really. I just do what I've got to do."

He looked down, red faced and seemingly flustered. "Still, if there is anything you need…anything I can do to make you more comfortable while you are with us—"

"Tell her you'll take her to the play, Spi—Mr. Hartley. Please. She wants to go so much, just let her and help her to have a good time. I'd give anything for my mother to be alive, so that I could do things with her."

He overlooked over her unintentional rudeness completely, choosing instead to see the sense in her words. "Of course I will," he said. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "And you will come, too, I hope."

After her lecture on doing what Anne wanted, Buffy didn't really feel she could say no—after all, Anne wanted her to go with them. But her smile was a little stiff when she echoed, "Of course. Thank you."

She nodded and left the room before he had a chance to say anything else.

* * *

* * *

That evening was clear but still very cold, and Buffy shivered inside her cloak as she assisted Anne to the carriage block. For that lady's sake, Buffy was glad that the clouds had dispersed long before afternoon. Had there been even the slightest chance of rain, William would have canceled their outing. As it was, he was quietly fretting about the temperature, asking his mother over and over if she was quite sure she was warm enough and assuring her that if she did not feel up to the excursion, then the loss of the ticket price was nothing at all.

Anne squeezed Buffy's arm as they settled into the plush bench-seat of the carriage. William sat opposite them. "Don't vex yourself darling," she admonished her son. "It is a lovely night. Cold, but I'm well bundled. And there isn't the slightest hint of dampness. Is there, Elizabeth?"

Buffy shoved her numb hands deeper into her muff and tried to answer without her teeth chattering. "The weather seems fine to me."

"I'm sure it will be fine," William replied, sounding as though he thought anything but. He was staring out the carriage's small window, though how he could see anything beyond the inky blackness of the night was a mystery. His right knee was twitching, and Buffy just knew he was dying to ask his mother, yet again, if she was warm enough. To his credit, he did manage to hold back this time.

Buffy had to admit he looked rather handsome—if somber—in his dark gray suit and long black overcoat. And gloves, of course. A gentleman wouldn't be seen on the street without his kind of dark, expensive-looking gloves. His only concession to color was a dark green waistcoat that was sprinkled with little red flowers, and it was this—and only this—that kept his attire from looking completely funereal. Again, he was immaculately groomed, even down to his fingernails. Yet, somehow, the overall effect was not dandifying; Buffy just assumed that this was how men in 1879 presented themselves. It was oddly appealing, that attention to detail.

"So, tell me about the play," Buffy said, struggling to break the awkward silence that had fallen over them. "Is it any good?"

"Haven't you read any Shakespeare, dear?" Anne was surprised.

"Yes. Well, some. In school. But that was _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ and the sonnets. I never read _A Summertime Dream_ before, or seen the play. What's it about?"

A hint of a smile played around William's lips as Anne answered Buffy's question.

"It is called _A Midsummer Night's Dream,_ Elizabeth, and it is rather like a fantasy."

"And a romance," added William. Buffy looked over at him, but he was still staring out the window.

"Yes, it is a romance," Anne agreed. "And it is a comedy, as well. But there are delightful creatures like fairies and nymphs and a faun; it's really very colorful. Oh, I can't describe it. You will have to see it for yourself to appreciate it—and the St. James' players are top-rate. It should be wonderful."

Buffy just hoped it would be warmer.

* * *

* * *

As it turned out, St. James' Theatre _was_ quite warm and comfortable. It was a beautiful building, not large but elegantly decorated. Though available for concerts and plays of all kinds, it catered mainly to the opera and was quite popular in the "season," which did not commence for some four months yet. Since it was wintertime and quite cold, not all of the tickets for this performance had been sold, and no more than three-quarters of the seats were filled. The Hartleys had arranged for a private box, which meant that even though they arrived a bit late—right before curtain call—they did not have to worry about tripping over the legs of other patrons while reaching their seats.

Buffy was so busy studying the details of that beautifully decorated large room that she didn't realize she was falling behind, until suddenly she felt a hand on her arm. Victorian England was a very no-touch establishment, so she was startled when William took her by the elbow and assisted her into the box beside his mother. Not that she needed assistance, but she supposed it was some kind of social rule that the man had to help the delicate little woman find her seat. So, she allowed him to do it. But it was a strange feeling: Spike's—no, _William's_—fingers lightly closed over her elbow, gently guiding her into her chair. He sat down on the opposite side of the box, so that Anne was between them. They both sat up so straight that Buffy felt like a slob and immediately adjusted her own position.

The gaslights dimmed, and the velvet curtains opened to reveal a brightly lit stage with colorful, hand-painted scenery. Buffy leaned forward in her plush seat hopefully, because, so far, it did look somewhat promising. The male actor was handsome and richly costumed. And if his gestures and facial expressions were a little over the top, well, that was all part of the Victorian era, wasn't it? Everything was over the top.

_"Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour  
Draws on apace—"_

At this first bit of dialogue, Buffy sat back in disappointment. She remembered, suddenly, why Shakespeare had always seemed so appallingly boring to her: she couldn't understand a single word he'd written. Apparently, hearing the language spoken aloud wasn't a whole lot more clear than reading it on a page. If anything, it was even more difficult to understand, because the actors all had very thick Cambridge-type accents and no sound equipment to help their voices carry across the room.

Buffy amused herself by gazing around the theater at the other patrons. She tried not to gawk rudely and embarrass Anne (who was watching the stage raptly, as if in the presence of something grand), but it was difficult not to stare. Most of the people in the theater were clearly members of the elite, and they dressed as such. For a moment, Buffy felt almost embarrassed by her own attire. For while the cream-colored dress was pretty, it was far simpler than the rich evening gowns worn by the other women. Evening gowns that were every color (darker colors seemed "in" for evening wear, and Buffy saw a lot of scarlet, deep green and midnight blue). The fancy lace and silk trimmings alone probably cost as much as her whole dress. And the jewelry! Victorian women sure did know how to accessorize. Gorgeous jewels in heavy gold settings were clasped around almost every woman's neck and hung from every small feminine ear.

It had been a long time since Buffy seriously cared about fashion. In Sunnydale, she always wore the latest styles and clothes that looked well on her, but in the back of her mind was always the thought of practicality. She couldn't very well go slaying in a fancy dress, and a lot of heavy jewelry would just give a vampire or demon something to grab hold of and hurt her with. The sudden dart of envy she felt for these elegantly dressed women was something she had not felt in a very long time, something almost alien. And immediately afterward, she felt guilty. After all, she was a slayer. She had more important things to think about. Like how to get back to where she belonged.

She did not allow herself to think about how long it had been since she had actually slain anything. Not since Glory, therefore not since her arrival in London. Whenever shame pricked at her, late at night, she told herself that there had been no opportunities for such activity, that she had seen no vampires in London and perhaps there weren't any here at all. But she knew that wasn't true. The real reason was that she was tired of the game, tired of hunting and killing, tired of worrying about the end of the world. There was already a Slayer in 1879—there must be one. And Armageddon was not at hand, because she knew the world had survived far longer than that. So, was it her responsibility to prowl the streets, destroying demons? Of course not. Let the current slayer handle it. Buffy was too busy for that kind of thing now. And she was having a hard enough time fitting into this time period without having Anne walk in on her stabbing somebody with a wooden stake.

She pushed the thought out of her mind, as the first act ended and the curtains pulled closed for a scenery change. As they waited, the audience milled about, greeting people they knew and discussing the virtues of the play. The room was soon filled with a low hum of voices.

William did not leave his seat, nor did he acknowledge that he knew any of the well-dressed men and women who passed by their box. Buffy couldn't help but wonder at that. He'd been in London long enough. Surely, he'd made some friends? And, according to Anne, they had used the London house for several weeks every year during the "social season," so it would seem that they must know many of the people in London's high society. Yet, he didn't seem inclined to approach any of his acquaintances, though some of them did glance at him as they went by, suggesting some kind of familiarity. Even during the longer break of Intermission, he remained in his seat, silent and thoughtful, talking only when his mother prodded him into conversation. Buffy guessed he was probably about as popular and socially adept as his vampire equivalent.

Intermission ended shortly, and then the second half of the play commenced. And, as boring as the story was to Buffy, the time went by fairly quickly. Almost before she knew it, the play was finished. The Hartleys remained seated until most of the audience had dispersed, for fear that Anne might be jostled or injured by the crowd as it hurried to the exits. When it was time to leave, William stood up first and helped his mother into the aisle. Then, he extended his hand to Buffy. She was already well on her way out of the box, but she took it, anyway, so that she wouldn't look impolite. His hand was surprisingly hot; Buffy thought it trembled slightly as he assisted her over the small step into the aisle. But when she looked at his face, his expression was very composed, almost detached. He released her the moment she cleared the step, as was proper, and did not look at or speak to her again. Not even on the ride home.

* * *


	8. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

In spite of all the care taken beforehand to keep her warm and safe in the dreaded "night air," their outing to the theater was not without its consequences to Anne. Late that night, she had another coughing fit, her worst yet. Buffy tried everything she knew to ease the awful, unproductive hacking, but nothing worked. Anne was gasping for air, but each breath brought new strain to her diseased lungs, causing her to cough all the harder. Buffy was frightened, uncertain of what she should do. William was apparently asleep—at least, he was still in his private rooms at the other end of the hallway. Knowing he would be angry to find Anne's condition worsening (after all, this was just what he had predicted), Buffy didn't dare disturb him until she had to. Instead, she sent one of the maids for the doctor and then ran downstairs for the medicine. It hadn't been long enough since the last dose, but she didn't know what else to do.

The cough medicine had been left sitting on the small table in the parlor, Buffy remembered. She ran to check, praying that the maids hadn't moved it to some out-of-the-way place where she would never find it. They hadn't. She grabbed it up with relief and such haste that the bottle slipped out of her sweaty grasp. The container crashed against the hardwood flooring, only barely cushioned by the rug. The brown glass splintered, scattering shards all over the place while the thick yellowish syrup oozed into the soft nap of the Oriental carpet.

"Oh, damn it!" she swore in frustration. She started picking at the broken bottle; the bottom had remained relatively intact, and she thought maybe there would be enough medicine left in it to give to Anne. No sooner did she try to find out, however, than she cut her finger on one sharp edge.

"What is the matter?"

Buffy looked up sharply, suddenly oblivious to the blood streaming from her right thumb. William was standing in the doorway, surveying the mess.

Mistaking his bewilderment for anger, she began to stammer nervously. "Your mother is coughing pretty badly. I was just getting her some medicine, and I—I dropped the bottle."

Even as she spoke, Buffy flinched inwardly. As if it wasn't already bad enough that Anne was coughing as a result of something she had convinced him to let her do, now she'd also wasted the medicine that was needed to help her. Buffy knew the syrup was expensive, and now, more than half a bottle of it was soaking into the parlor rug, which, incidentally, was also expensive. She figured that if ever there was a moment when William would chuck her out, this would be it. He certainly had enough of a reason to be angry. And if he threw her out, where would she go?

His eyes flicked down to her hand, but the glare of lamplight on his spectacles kept her from reading his expression. His voice was strange and tight when he noted, "You are bleeding."

She looked down. The three-inch gash on her hand was still bleeding freely, blood flowing steadily from her thumb onto the already-stained wool of the carpet. She covered the wound quickly with her other hand.

"I—I'm sorry. I'll pay for it and for cleaning the carpet, too. I'll pay you back for all of it—"

"SARAH!"

He bellowed it so loudly, Buffy cringed; but his voice regained its even tone once the elderly housekeeper appeared.

"Go to the pantry and retrieve the other bottle of Mother's medicine," he ordered, ignoring her curtsy. "Then, go upstairs and give Mother one spoonful—and do it quickly. Sit with her until I come to relieve you."

He glanced back at Buffy. "Did you send for the doctor?"

She nodded. "Ten minutes ago. Matthew went. He should be back soon."

"Good." He seemed almost as anxious Buffy was. When Mrs. Fitzpatrick did not immediately depart, he snapped at her, "Well, what are you waiting for? GO!"

Buffy shrank back into the floor, trying to simultaneously pick up broken glass and nurse her bleeding hand. She'd never heard him shout before, and something about it frightened her. Although she had not been certain about what kind of person he was, he was at least soft-spoken and polite. She figured if she'd driven him to screaming like a banshee, then her butt was as good as gone from this house. She ducked her head and waited for the dismissal.

But instead of ordering her out, William knelt on the floor next to Buffy.

"Your hand—?"

"It'll be okay. I just—"

"You misunderstand. What I meant to say was: may I look at your hand?"

She fell silent and let him take her right hand into his own. He turned it palm-up, studied the cut for a moment, and then reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

"I shall ask the doctor to examine this after he attends to Mother," he said. His voice was so soft she could barely hear him. "It is quite deep."

Buffy hardly felt it as he placed the handkerchief against her wound, gently applying pressure to stem the bleeding. What she did notice was that his hands were shaking even as they nursed her own. His voice was shaking, too. "It's not that bad," she told him, puzzled by his behavior. The cut was bleeding freely, but it wasn't anything serious. No stitches required, at least. Why was he acting so oddly? Was it just the blood that bothered him?

She looked up to see if he appeared faint or sickened by the sight, but the expression in his blue eyes was one of concern. Tenderness. And there was something else. Something she couldn't quite comprehend. Something that definitely was not the anger she had anticipated.

She lowered her head and babbled stupidly: "I'm sorry about the medicine. I know it's really expensive, and I will replace it."

"Don't be absurd," he said hoarsely. He was still holding her hand, even though the handkerchief-bandage had already stopped the bleeding. Again, she became aware of how hot his skin was, almost feverish. When she chanced to glance up, he quickly looked away from her, dropping her hand and avoiding her gaze.

"You are all right now?"

"I—I'm fine," she stammered. "Thank you—"

She reached out to touch his arm, but he stumbled backward, quickly rising to his feet.

"I—I must see to Mother. Leave the mess and take care of your injury; I shall tell Sarah to have one of the maids clean the carpet."

And before she could say anything in reply, he started away, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets and his shoulders hunched. Even from the back, she could see that his ears and neck were scarlet.

Buffy sat back on her heels as one of the parlor maids rushed in and began picking up the bits of broken glass. She felt strange, somehow. Almost as though she wanted to go after him.

But of course, that was unthinkable.

* * *

* * *

Hours later, Buffy was hovering near the doorway of the master bedroom. Dr. Gull had finished his examination and prescribed his pills; now, finally, he was making ready to leave.

Although the worst of Anne's sick spell had now passed, Buffy could not bring herself to relax. She could tell by his expression that William felt the same way. Even though neither of them dared to voice it aloud, both of them were dreadfully afraid that Anne might develop pneumonia after her night at the theater. This fear was sharpened by the doctor's insistence that it was foolish for Anne to be "out in the night air" when already she was "in poor constitution". By then, Anne's coughing spell was over, and she was resting--a little pale and weak, but basically all right. However, Dr. Gull insisted that the consequences of their outing might not end tonight. The violent coughing that accompanied her illness was weakening her lungs, and tonight's bout was, by far, the worst yet. If they continued in this fashion, he averred, they would greatly shorten the time Anne had left.

Now, the doctor snapped shut his small black case and motioned for William to follow him into the hallway. To Buffy, he said nothing nor gave any acknowledgement of her presence as he passed by her. She was, after all, only a woman. A servant. It was not befitting of his position for him to notice her. Buffy wasn't crushed by this. She waited until both men had exited the room and then dropped, exhausted, into a small chair beside the bed. The physical and emotional stress of the late evening had been overwhelming, and now that the crisis had passed and Anne was resting comfortably, Buffy realized just what a toll it had taken on her own body. Her feet and back ached so much that she knew sleep would be elusive even despite her fatigue. Of course, this was assuming that she got the opportunity to sleep. It was already half-past three o'clock.

Through the half-opened door drifted a sound of masculine voices, one of them very loud and obviously angry. Buffy sighed. Being routed out of his bed in the middle of the night had put Dr. Gull into a poor temper, and he had already scolded them soundly for having been so thoughtless as to let Anne out into the cold weather. Apparently, he wasn't quite finished yet, and, being the man of the house, William definitely bore the brunt of the criticism. It seemed rather unfair, considering the fact that of the three of them, William was the only one who had been against the night out. He had not seemed of a mind to explain this during the first telling off, so Buffy had spoken up on his behalf. The doctor did not feel that this was a sufficient excuse. He had maintained (still rather loudly) that William was the head of the household and should be more than capable of keeping two women adequately in hand.

Now, Buffy kept waiting for William to lose his temper at this new round of abuse. If any doctor of Joyce's had ever spoken to _her_ that way, she would have shown him the door as well as the rough side of her tongue. And she knew he must have a limit to his patience; Spike's hair-trigger temper could not have cropped up out of nowhere. Apparently, it had taken a vacation, because he merely agreed with the doctor's observations and thanked him—thanked him!—for coming at so late an hour.

After a few minutes' absence during which he led the doctor to his coach, William reappeared in the doorway. He was a sharp contrast to the immaculately groomed gentleman of just a few hours before. Then, every hair was in place, every button fastened, every crease crisply starched. Now, he looked as though a truck had hit him. His eyes were bloodshot and circled by bluish-black rings, and his hair was a wild tumble of curls. He had left his spectacles somewhere, during the confusion, and without them, Buffy could see his eyes clearly for the first time. He bore much more of a resemblance to Spike than she first imagined.

He moved into the room awkwardly, keeping close to the wall, as if afraid that close contact would be contaminating. Buffy remembered how he had staggered backwards away from her in the parlor, and her cheeks colored with embarrassment. When the doctor was there, and they were focusing all of their energies in making Anne well, it was all right; there had not been time to notice the unease between them. Now, Anne was asleep and they were virtually alone, and it all came back tenfold.

"My mother…is she all right?" His voice was hoarse from fatigue.

"She's asleep," Buffy told him. Then immediately felt stupid for it. He could see for himself that she was asleep. She rushed to add, "Her breathing is much better, though. Not so much wheezing."

He nodded.

"I'll stay with her for the rest of the night, though. You know…just to be sure everything is okay."

"That isn't necessary. I shall stay with her; you may go take your rest."

"Considering the fact that you look and sound like you're about to drop out from exhaustion, I'm going to vote 'no' on that idea. Anyway, I'm the nursemaid…and all of this is my fault. I'll stay with her. It's my responsibility."

"Why would you say such a thing?" he asked. And she thought how strangely he spoke to her, always with perfect grammar in the most quiet, cramped diction. As if he thought she would be grading him on it. He never spoke that way to anyone else. Spike never spoke that way, at all.

Confused by his question, she said slowly, "Well…for one thing…you're paying me…"

"No…" He shook his head, as if to gather his scattered thoughts. "I'm sorry...I'm afraid I wasn't clear, and you misunderstood the question. What I meant to say was: Why would you think Mother's illness is _your_ fault?"

She looked down at her bandaged hand, slightly ashamed. She didn't want to spell it out for him, but she knew he would eventually make the connection anyway.

"I was the one who pushed for you to take her to the play. And while I don't buy the doctor's claim that night air can kill you, obviously _something_ at the playhouse aggravated her condition, because all of this started after we got home. Since I'm the one who insisted she go…that makes it my fault."

He looked at her thoughtfully. "I'm afraid that I still don't see an association."

_Am I supposed to draw you a picture?_ Buffy wondered. She opened her mouth to clarify, but he spoke instead.

"My mother has consumption, a disease of the lungs that is progressive. These…episodes…will grow more frequent as her illness advances; the doctor told us that, at the first. Nothing you did or could do will change that. Her sick spells are not your fault."

"Yeah. But I shouldn't have told you to take her out. That made it worse. Maybe the cold air—"

"But don't you see, Miss Summers? You were _right_."

"I was?" she asked blankly.

"Yes! You told me that it was better to allow her to live the time she has left, rather than wrap her in cotton wool. Hobbling her, in a sense. And making her miserable. Everything you said was—" He paused, then, his face relaxing into a smile that Buffy knew was not meant for her. He was thinking of something else, though she had no idea what. Or, whom.

"What?"

"Did you not note her expression, as she watched the play? She looked so…happy."

"So, this"—Buffy motioned to Anne's sleeping form—"was worth it? Just to see her happy for two hours?" She didn't ask him this because she thought differently; she merely wanted some reassurance that her decisions weren't wrong, or harmful to the woman who had been so kind to her.

He was standing opposite her, facing her. But presently he turned slightly, so that his left shoulder was out and his head in profile. Despite this, his stance seemed anything but aloof, and she knew that this time, the small smile on his lips was for her…even if he did not want her to see it.

"Yes," he said quietly. "I rather think that it was."

* * *

* * *

The late night took its toll on them all, and as a result, breakfast was served rather late the following morning. Buffy had not thought that Anne would be well enough to take her meal in the dining room, but Anne insisted upon it. She still looked a little wan, but she had rested well, after the doctor's visit, and assured Buffy that she felt fine.

Oddly enough, William seemed to have faired far worse in the ordeal than his mother, but perhaps this was because she had slept, as he had not. Nothing Buffy had said early that morning would persuade him to let her watch over Anne, so eventually she had given up and gone to bed. Apparently, William had spent several uncomfortable hours trying to nap on an armchair. He had left the moment Buffy arrived in Anne's room. Not to sleep, but to change his clothes and freshen up. Both women had suggested that he try to catch up on the sleep he had missed, but he refused to admit he needed this and arrived in the dining room just after they did. The coffee had already been served, the food wheeled out on a little wooden cart, when he sat down across the table from Buffy.

"Are you all right, dear?" Anne's question mirrored the one he had just asked her. Her brow was drawn with worry, but William smiled at her reassuringly.

"Quite all right, Mother. Only a little tired. I'm sure I shall perk up after a bit of breakfast." He looked like a corpse someone had forgotten to bury. Though now as immaculately dressed and groomed as ever, his weary, frayed look of the night before remained. He was probably somewhere around his late twenties, but this morning he looked much older. When the footman displayed all the delicacies offered for breakfast, he only shook his head and asked for a little toast and some tea.

Buffy tried to follow suit. The etiquette guide Anne had given her said that women should appear utterly without appetite when in the presence of men and that they should never eat more than a man. However, after only picking at her meals for the past two days, she was starving, and all the etiquette in the world couldn't have turned her from the crisp rashers of bacon, the poached eggs and grilled tomatoes. Still, she asked for only half the amount she actually wanted and managed not to cram it all down her throat at one time, when the footman put it on her plate. Trying to nibble elegantly, she half-listened to William and Anne as they discussed the upcoming holidays.

William's voice was still a little hoarse, and Buffy felt an unexpected wave of pity for him. Aside from the weariness for which she still felt guiltily responsible, he seemed so depressed that morning. Small wonder, that. His mother had a terminal illness; essentially, she was dying a little every minute. And he was destined to die sometime in the next year, so that a demon with poor fashion sense could take up residence in his corpse. Things weren't exactly coming up roses for the guy. Of course, she'd feel pity for him. That was all. Just pity.

As if sensing her thoughts, William suddenly turned his eyes toward Buffy. He caught her staring at him and blushed a little bit, even though she looked away almost immediately.

"Forgive me, Miss Summers," he said awkwardly. "I forgot to inquire about your hand. Does it still pain you?"

"No. The doctor bandaged it really good, and he gave me an ointment. I'm—I'm cool," she answered, still flustered at being caught staring.

But Anne and William seemed puzzled with her.

"Would you like to sit nearer to the fire, Elizabeth?" Anne asked finally.

Buffy stared at her blankly. "Huh?"

"You said you were cool, so I thought…"

"Oh." Buffy laughed. "Oh! No. Not cool like cold. I mean cool like 'fine' or 'all right'. It's an American expression," she added lamely.

"How very odd!" Anne looked at her son curiously. "You read books on America, William. Did you know that 'cool' is used in such a way there?"

He shook his head, and Buffy realized she had put her foot in it now. "Oh, well. It probably wouldn't be in books. It's not refined speech or anything…more like…uh…slang. So, I don't think people would write it down."

"Slang!" Horrified, Anne dropped her fork beside her plate. "Oh, Elizabeth! You mustn't talk slang! You're a _lady_…"

"Um, yeah. I know that. But it's like…ladylike slang over there. It's not bad." She squirmed in her chair uneasily.

Anne started to say something else, but William interjected on Buffy's behalf. "Now, Mother. You cannot judge Miss Summers' behavior, when she is from a different country that our own. We might easily consider the edicts of decorum nothing more than a comprisal of the idiosyncrasies of each individual culture. As such, good etiquette would be a very subjective thing. What is improper here might be considered perfectly all right in America…and vice versa."

Though she hadn't the faintest idea of what he had just said, Buffy realized William was coming to her defense, and she flashed him a grateful smile. "Uh, sure. I mean yeah…that's totally it," she agreed. "But if talking like that is a British social no-no, then I'll try to hold back. I mean…just because good manners are subjective doesn't mean that I shouldn't try to follow the rules as long as I'm here. Right?"

Anne nodded, evidently much relieved to hear that Buffy would attempt to improve her grammar, at least. But William frowned.

"I hardly think that would be in order. You are an American; I see no need to fault you for speaking as such."

She had no idea what he was getting at.

"Oh, I don't mind. As kind as Anne—both of you—have been, I would hate to think that my kooky American-speak caused you any embarrassment."

William seemed very interested in his teacup all of a sudden; he was staring at the hand-painted rose pattern on the china intently. The spectacles were back in place, so she couldn't really see his eyes. But if the dark blush staining his cheeks was any indication, whatever he was about to tell her was being divulged with the utmost difficulty.

"I think the way you speak is utterly charming," he said, finally. His voice was so soft that, had she not been paying such close attention, she might not have heard him at all. And when she did hear him, she had no idea how to respond.

After an awkward moment of silence, William cleared his throat and added, "Oh, and I meant to tell you yesterday, Mother. I have some business to attend to today, so I will be gone most of the forenoon."

"Oh, William!" Anne exclaimed, while Buffy sat back, relieved the moment of discomfort was over. "Surely, you cannot attend to business this morning! Why, you look tired to death." Beneath the table, she prodded Buffy's leg with her foot. "Doesn't he, Elizabeth?"

"I've seen him look deader." The sentence slipped out before Buffy could think about how it would sound to them.

William flushed, perhaps not unduly offended by this statement. He tossed his napkin onto his plate. "Yes. Well, on that note…"

If looks could kill, the glare Anne shot Buffy would have slain her in an instant. She reached out to touch her son's hand. "Oh, William, you don't mean to leave yet? You haven't touched your breakfast."

"It's all right, Mother. I shall be back in time for luncheon." He leaned to kiss Anne on the cheek and then favored Buffy with a short jerk of his head. "Miss Summers."

Anne waited until he had left the room, and then she, too, pushed back her chair. "Oh, honestly, Elizabeth!" she said. "What has gotten into you lately? You've been such a sweet girl. Now, all of a sudden, this tactlessness…"

"I didn't mean it _that_ way…"

"Then, what way did you mean it, I would like to know?"

Buffy couldn't answer that question, because she had seen William look deader. But only once he was dead.

* * *

* * *

Anne left the dining room in something of a huff, after that. Buffy started to follow her into the parlor, but suddenly she found herself making a ninety-degree turn down the hallway and into the foyer. Just as she thought, William was still there, waiting for the coachman to bring the carriage around. He was standing to one side of the door, shrugging into his greatcoat. Her approach seemed to startle him.

"Miss Summers, is something wrong? Is Mother—?"

"She's fine. I just...I wanted to talk to you. You know…before you left."

"Ah, I see." He was buttoning his coat, but Buffy could tell, by the amount of time he was spending on the task, that what he was really doing was avoiding her gaze.

"What…ah…what was it you wished to say?"

"I wanted to—to apologize for what I said earlier. I didn't mean it that way, I just…I was distracted. I didn't know what I was saying. Just more of the kooky American-speak, I guess," she added lightly. But he didn't return her smile.

"Don't concern yourself. It was nothing." He started to turn away, but Buffy put a hand on his arm.

"It's not all right if I hurt your feelings. I didn't mean to. I mean…I wouldn't want to…" She could feel the muscles in his arm twitching beneath her fingers; she could see the way his shoulders drew up as he tensed at the contact. He inclined his head, staring at her hand on his sleeve with something akin to shock; but he didn't pull away, and she didn't remove it. It seemed a long time before he answered.

"Oh, no...I…it's all right," he breathed. "That is to say—"

The front door opened, then, and he pulled away from her with a speed worthy of his vampire counterpart. Both of them turned to find that the intruder was Matthew, the head groom and coachman, come to say that the carriage was waiting at the block if Master William was ready for it.

William's face was bright red; Buffy thought in bewilderment that he looked more as though she had grabbed a handful of his ass, rather than barely touched his sleeve. He thanked the coachman and then turned back to Buffy. Rather, he turned back in the direction of Buffy. His eyes, however, were focused on the gleaming boards of the hardwood floor.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I must…" His voice trailed away.

Buffy nodded in assent (odd that he should wait for this), and William pulled open the door, letting in a blast of cold air. He glanced back at her, touched a hand to the brim of his hat, and then stepped out into the winter morning.

* * *


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

Buffy didn't want to like him. William. Aside from the fact that he would eventually become a creature she loathed—and there was absolutely nothing she could to do prevent that— he was also very odd. He made her uneasy with his silences, with the way his eyes sometimes followed her as she crossed a room. The way they fixed upon her mouth with a slightly dazed expression as she ate her dinner. He was attracted to her; she could see it in his face, could almost feel it like heat coming off his skin. And the realization of it troubled her. She didn't want to put herself in a position that might compromise her return to the future; she didn't want to alter her future so that she returned to a place different from the one she had left. And she knew that the more time she spent with him—the longer she was stuck in this era—then the harder it was going to be to prevent things from changing. She tried to avoid him, but, even as large as the house was, that was impossible. It was her job to stay with Anne, to see to her needs; and since his arrival home, William had spent most of his free time with his mother. Of course, that meant he spent most of his free time with Buffy as well.

By now, she knew that he was, for the most part, just what Anne had claimed: a gentleman who cared for his family, was good to his servants, and worked steadily at the business left to him by his father. He was so shy that he could hardly speak to her without blushing, and she knew he would not try to take advantage of her the way so many men did with their hired help. The other servants spoke highly of him, because he treated them kindly. But she knew that his attraction for her couldn't end well for either of them. Who knew what Spike might remember once he was vamped? And if she changed even that one thing about his future, she might change it all.

But he was handsome.

She tried not to notice it in the days that followed, but good God, how could she not? Every time she turned around, there he was. And it wasn't even that he looked like Spike. Although their appearances were naturally very similar, there were dozens of subtle differences as well. The contours of William's face seemed softer, although this might have been due, in part, to his expression. Most of the time, Spike looked self-assured and—even when not in his game face—almost predatory. But there was a vulnerability to William that she had never noticed in Spike, an innocence that made him appear very young at times. Boyish and utterly defenseless in the face of disapproval. Other times, he seemed old and weary, as if the weight of his responsibilities was dragging him down. He rarely smiled, but when he did, it was slow and sweet. Charming. Very hard to resist.

She had to resist.

Anyway, who was to say that he actually _liked_ her? He never talked to her, although it often seemed that he was listening intently when she spoke to Anne. That expression might look like longing, but it was probably just lust. After all, the place wasn't exactly hopping with single women, and she was convenient to look at. She was pretty. Of course, he would find himself attracted to her. And despite the uncomfortable feelings she had to the contrary, Buffy tried to convince herself that physical attraction couldn't mean a lot in the great scheme of things. Not for either of them.

* * *

* * *

_Don't look at her._

Sitting in the parlor after dinner that night, he tried not to. But as usual, his eyes stubbornly refused to obey his brain. Slowly, they drifted over to where she sat before the parlor window, staring out the glass with an unhappy expression. Despite his best efforts—and his mother's—Miss Summers often seemed discontented. He had thought that a nice home and pretty clothes…a bit of pocket money…would make her happy. He wanted her to be happy; he wanted to please her. Because, although he had tried to tell himself otherwise, he knew she was not a mere servant. The peculiar set of circumstances that had brought her here proved it. There was something about her, something special. Something that brought him to his knees the moment he had first laid eyes on her. And he wanted, so badly, to have—

_Her._

He toyed with the book in his hands, nervously flipping pages until he finally gave himself a paper cut. Were his affections that fickle…that meaningless? He had convinced himself of his love for Cecily, had carried his torch and laid flowers at her altar for months now. How could all of that affection shift so quickly? How could it disappear the moment his eyes rested upon the little American with odd manners and even odder ways of speech? Yet the more he tried to deny his feelings, the stronger they became.

She was so full of life. He wondered if it was a trait of all Americans or if it was merely another sign of her individuality. The ladies of London were soft-spoken and, for the most part, sedate. Oh, they would giggle and tease, sometimes flirt with the gentlemen with whom they were best acquainted. But rarely did they show the boundless energy that Miss Summers possessed. She liked to be outside, although, of course, she was not allowed to venture very far by herself. Once, he had seen her in the back garden alone, running and leaping, holding a trowel and using it to make strange jabbing motions at one of the statuaries. It seemed like play, and he had stood at the window and watched in fascination until she was finished. Another time, he had been walking from the carriage block when he found her standing on the brick path before the house. The day was very cold, and the bricks were glazed and frozen. She was sliding along them like an ice dancer without skates, beautiful and graceful in the fading twilight. In neither of these instances did she appear particularly happy; she never appeared wholly content. But there was so much _life_ in them…and in her. It was a delight just to observe her. He only wished that he could bring light back into that life…that he could make up for whatever wrongs life had done her.

What was she thinking, as she stared out upon the frozen landscape that afternoon? Was it the memory of her deceased loved ones? Was it grief that so often clouded those unfathomable green eyes? He shouldn't wonder. That first morning home, when she had followed him into the library to talk, she had looked so miserable when she spoke of her mother's passing. She hadn't mentioned her father. He must have been longer gone, her sorrow for him assuaged by time. Both of them dead…and she had been left with no one.

His heart cramped a little at that, because it was a feeling he knew only too well. To be alone. He had his mother, of course. But no one else. Not a sibling or a cousin, not a father or a friend. His mother's passing would leave him in utter solitude, and he dreaded that almost as much as her death itself. To have no one to talk to…no one to care. It was almost too dreadful to contemplate.

He'd long dreamed of having a wife. A wife and a little child. Both of them would be small and soft and deliciously _his_. They would love him and need him. He would take care of them. He wanted someone to take care of, to protect. He'd spent the greater part of his life doing that for his mother, and it had made him a nurturer both by inclination and by necessity. Perhaps that, as much as anything, had drawn him to Miss Summers. She was so young, so diminutive, so _lost_. And he wanted to cradle her, to shelter her from the harshness of the world, and to remove the terrible look of sadness and desperation that sometimes darkened her features.

Of course, he knew that she could never return his admiration. Women were never interested in him, although he did not know why. He had always done his best…always dressed well and used good manners. He tried to make himself attractive to them. Yet, it seemed that whenever he gathered the courage to speak with one, she always deterred him with poorly concealed scorn. With pretty eyes that never focused on him, but instead seemed to be searching for an escape, a way to leave his company. It hurt to think that he should try so hard and never succeed, and he could not understand it. Finally, he decided he must be very plain. That he was so undesirable that, aside from his wealth, there was nothing to recommend him. And he knew without being told that Miss Summers would not be interested in his wealth. She wouldn't be interested in him at all. He thought that if he had one ounce of sense, then he would push the very notion of it from his mind.

But he couldn't.

Even with the depressing certainty that she disliked him, he could not stop fantasizing about her; and as he sat in the room with her now, he could not bring himself to look away. Her head was turned a little to the side; she didn't see him. And for once, he was able to look at her to his heart's content, his lonely gaze following the slender line of her neck, the curve of her jaw…her beautiful long hair. She always kept her hair pinned up, as a lady should, and he couldn't help but wonder what it would look like if it were loose and flowing. He wanted to stroke it, to feel the silky strands slip through his fingers. The sudden desire made him blush, and he turned back to his book with a guilty determination not to look at her again.

It was no good. A moment later, his raised his eyes once more. He could feel his mother looking at him, no doubt wondering why he was so slow to make conversation; but he couldn't drag his gaze away from Miss Summers.

He didn't want to.

* * *

* * *

Technically, Buffy wasn't supposed to leave the house without a chaperone. Although, of course, married women would travel with their husbands, unmarried Victorian ladies were always supposed to be in the company of an older female relative, often a mother or an aunt. Since Buffy had neither, she usually took Mrs. Fitzpatrick with her when she ventured out into the city. It wasn't a perfect arrangement, in the eyes of society, but it was the best they could do. And since one of Buffy's duties included running errands for Anne, it was unavoidable. She didn't mind Mrs. Fitzpatrick's company. Though stern, the housekeeper was very kind. Almost motherly. And her knowledge of the city made the tasks go much more smoothly. Still, Buffy was hoping for a day when she could explore London on her own.

A couple of weeks after William's return, Mrs. Fitzpatrick contacted the grippe. Half of London had it that winter, and it seemed almost unavoidable. At first, Buffy couldn't understand why everyone seemed so worried. It was just the flu. But everyone took such painstaking precautions to prevent it from spreading. The housekeeper was confined to her room downstairs and one of the lower maids assigned to care for her. The maid was ordered never to come upstairs, nor to wash Mrs. Fitzpatrick's clothes and bedding with the other servants'. No one else was allowed into the sick room, and when the doctor left it, he had to leave quickly by the servants' door.

It was in listening to the doctor's instructions one evening, that Buffy finally found out why everyone was so anxious. The flu was fatal here.

As concerned as she was for the housekeeper's health—and of course, for Anne's, because if she contracted the disease she was as good as dead—Buffy couldn't help feeling relieved when she left the house, alone, a few days later. She supposed to have Livvy accompany her; Anne ordered it. But Buffy never even mentioned it to the young maid. This was her chance, and she was going to take it.

She went on foot, because she knew that the coachman wouldn't drive her without a chaperone. But that was okay. Weeks of relative inactivity had made her ready for some real exercise, and her legs ate up miles of London streets swiftly as she walked to the apothecary to buy Anne's medicine. It wasn't their usual apothecary, the one just two streets away from the house. This one was some distance to the north of them, desirable for its close proximity to an occult shop Buffy had taken note of while on an errand some weeks before. Then, she had been with Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and they were on their way to a dry-goods shop; Buffy could do little more than glance at the sign as they passed it. But now that she was alone, she determined to venture inside to see if she could find some way of getting herself home.

The occult shop was nothing more than a tiny rented space in a rundown building that housed many businesses of the same sort. By Victorian standards, all of them were disreputable. There was a fortune-teller to the left of the shop and to the right of it, what was rumored to be a small brothel. For a moment, she hesitated at the door, not at all certain that she wanted to enter the crumbling building and spill her secrets to some grimy stranger. But what were her other options?

However, in the end it was no good. Just a big, frustrating waste of time. The owner of the shop was a very old woman who smelled of cabbage and tobacco smoke. Most of her business was in trade, and most of her goods consisted of potions that promised wealth, or love, or long life. Had her clientele but known it, these concoctions consisted of nothing more than hearth ashes and grain alcohol, with a few harmless herbs added to give them flavor. When Buffy asked her about time travel, the shopkeeper first looked at her as if she were joking, and when it became apparent that she wasn't, finally suggested the name of a fine sanatorium that specialized in delusions of the mind.

Needless to say, the whole experience did nothing to raise Buffy's hopes. She walked back to the Hartleys that evening with a heavy heart, and when she arrived, she told them that the tearstains on her face were from the rain.

And although she did not know it, William spent most of that night pacing the library floor.

* * *


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

Those last few days leading up to Christmas passed uneventfully. Slowly, it seemed to Buffy, the long hours dragging with a tedium that made her want to scream. Yet as the sun went down on each one, she felt a pang of fear, the ache in her chest growing just a little tighter. Because another day had gone and there was no sign, not the smallest indication, that her friends were bringing her home. She tried not to worry about it; worrying helped nothing anyway. She took care of Anne, performing each of her tasks with a precision that would have impressed the most rigid hospital staff. Each morning when she woke, she peered out the window in expectation seeing the snow Anne promised, but although the weather remained bitter cold, there were no picturesque white drifts or lazily falling flakes. Instead, there came a day and a half of unending sleet, when gray sheets of icy water lashed at the windows, obscuring the view.

In spite of the chill and dampness, Anne remained in good health and good spirits. She confided to Buffy that she had secretly been dreading this holiday, the first that she would spend as an invalid. Normally there would have been parties and dinners, church and caroling. She had feared the absence of these things but admitted that the peace of this Christmas was not an unwelcome one. And it wasn't as though they were completely without tradition. There was the tree.

Buffy had not realized that Christmas trees even existed in 1879, so she was surprised to find out how fashionable the custom actually was. Apparently, their popularity had soared when early in her marriage Her Royal Highness, the Queen Victoria, adopted the German custom to make her husband feel more at home. The Queen's tree was adorned with priceless hand-blown glass ornaments, but the decorations on the Hartley's tree were mainly edible: popcorn and cranberries being joined by nuts, candies, and even little cakes. Yet there were also small wax figures and stars fashioned out of metal. And of course, there were the candles. Purposefully setting a dead tree on fire seemed like a bad idea to Buffy, but when she verbalized this concern to Anne, the lady merely laughed and explained that was why they would be placing a pail of water beside the tree. They would be safe as houses.

As safe as the Towering Inferno, maybe.

Still, in spite of her concerns, Buffy could not help but be impressed by the effect when, on Christmas Eve, William used a rush to light every small candle. The effect was prettier than electric lights and the warmth of the tiny flames caused the evergreen to emit a wonderful, spicy odor. The entire parlor looked like an illustration of the perfect Victorian Christmas and she felt, for the first time, a twinge of holiday spirit.

That evening, all of the servants were welcomed "upstairs" to receive their Christmas bonuses of a half-crown each and—for the men—a taste of some very fine brandy. Although it wasn't fitting for the Hartleys to socialize with their help (they faded into the background once the money was distributed) for Buffy it should have been acceptable. That night there was a party in servants' quarters with food and drink, even music and dancing. Buffy never really had the chance to get to know the other servants and she would have enjoyed the opportunity to join them if for no other reason that to break the monotony of the days. But for some reason both Hartleys vetoed this idea. Instead, she spent the evening in the parlor listening to Anne read aloud the pertinent chapters of the Bible and trying not to yawn.

William was standing before the window, staring out onto the darkened lawn. Ostensibly, he was also listening to the retelling of Christ's birth, though Buffy had her doubts. His eyes had a decidedly glazed look about them and she suspected that he was just as bored by this as she was. It startled her when he abruptly straightened up, coming awake with a sudden, eager gesture to the windowpane.

"Look!"

Expecting to see a gang of vampires ascending the walkway (okay, so she'd lived on the Hellmouth too long) Buffy left her seat to join him at the window. Standing just beyond the gate on the brick walkway was a small group of people. All of them were well bundled over their finery and huddled together against the bitter December wind. They were singing Christmas carols—Buffy could tell by the hymnbooks they clutched in their hands, the unified movements of their lips. In fact, when she listened carefully she thought she could hear it, very faintly, through the glass.

"Pretty," she remarked, though this was more a comment to the fashionable turnout of the group rather than their performance. She could hardly hear them singing, but by the light of their lanterns, she could see clearly the fur-lined capes and muffs of the women, their pretty dresses underneath. The sleet had stopped some hours earlier, but the frigid cold remained and the carolers' breath came in white puffs. All of them were red-cheeked from the sharp wind.

Buffy was so busy watching them that she did not realize William was watching her until he spoke.

"Would you—would you like to hear the singing?"

While not exactly her idea of a rollicking good time, it certainly was a more exciting idea than sitting before the fire listening to scripture, and Buffy nodded enthusiastically. Then her face fell.

"We can't open the window, though…" She jerked her head toward Anne. They couldn't risk her falling ill by letting in the dampness and cold.

"Yes. Well…I thought…" His face reddened. "Perhaps we could go outside?"

Buffy didn't understand why this would be a cause for embarrassment, nor could she comprehend the slightly disappointed look his mother shot him. She chalked it up to regret that the carolers should be more interesting than the Good Book and quickly dismissed it.

"I'd like that," she told him.

William smiled diffidently, but Anne frowned.

"Oh, William! Surely, you cannot mean to go outside in the winter darkness and lead Elizabeth to do the same. You'll both catch your death of cold…"

"It's only out on the doorstep, Mother, and I shall see to it we bundle ourselves."

This answer he gave with the same gentle tones he always used with his mother, but Buffy detected something else underneath, something that did not want to be reckoned with. Anne must have sensed it too, for she did not argue the matter further but instead turned back to her Bible with a sigh and a shaking of her head at the foolishness of youth.

Deliberately choosing not to see her employer's disapproval, Buffy followed William out into the foyer. He assisted her in putting on her wraps and muff before seeing to his own attire. Even though she knew her feminist mind should be revolting at the idea, she could not help but enjoy the way he insisted on helping her with little things she could easily do for herself. Her entire young adulthood had been spent caring for everyone around her; it was nice, for once, to let someone take care of her. And when he opened the door and took her elbow to lead her out…well, she liked that too.

Outside the air was so cold it felt like a fist to the chest and Buffy gasped with the shock of it—something she immediately regretted as the frosty wind stabbed at her lungs. She glanced at William, whose coat was unbuttoned, but he did not seem uncomfortably cold. If anything he looked a little flushed as he helped her pick her way down the ice-slick steps.

They did not go far, just down to the foot of the steps and off the walkway onto the lawn (the bricks were glazed with ice and too slippery to stand on). Buffy shivered with cold at first, but she soon grew used to it and began to enjoy the clear, sweet tones of the singers. She didn't recognize the song they sang, but it had a bouncy, happy beat she could appreciate.

_I saw three ships come sailing in  
On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day.  
I saw three ships come sailing in  
On Christmas Day in the morning!_

"They are very good," she whispered. Mostly to herself, although William heard.

"Members of the choir at the local church, most of them," he answered. "They have a good choirmaster."

She looked at him with surprise.

"Do you go to church?"

"Yes…well…I did at one time. Not anymore."

Buffy didn't have to ask him why not anymore. She knew. It was in his eyes and in his tone. He was angry about Anne's illness and who better to be angry at than the Almighty? If He was real then He could do something about it…and wouldn't. If He was not real…then what was the point of all those Sundays wasted? It was a feeling she understood well.

"I'm sorry," she told him sympathetically. "About your mother, I mean. I'm sorry she's sick; I know how hard it must be for you."

"Let's not talk of it just now," he quickly replied, his eyes still fixed on the carolers. "Let's not…talk of anything sad."

They did not talk about anything at all for a little while after that. However, the silence was not an uncomfortable one. In fact, there was something oddly restful about standing in the winter evening with him. It was the same sort of strange affinity she'd once felt with Spike as they sat on her back porch steps in the moonlight. A brief moment in time that seemed longer past that it actually was…and that she remembered with some bitterness for the betrayals that eventually followed it.

By this time finished with the first song, the carolers had launched into their next and this one Buffy found she did recognize.

_The holly and the ivy,  
When they are both full grown  
Of all the trees that are in the wood  
The holly bears the crown…_

"I know this song. They used to make us sing it in the chorus when I was in junior high. None of us could get our voices up that high, though. Actually…none of us could really carry a tune. I think cats started wailing whenever we tried." Buffy sighed and shook her head. "No wonder I only spent one semester in chorus."

"You know it's a pagan custom." William seemed eager to share this information, but Buffy could not help tormenting him just a little. She pulled a confused face.

"Junior high school chorus?" she asked.

"No…decorating with holly and ivy. It was a tradition when celebrating winter solstice. When people became Christians I suppose they were reluctant to give up the old customs so they found new meanings for them such as the representation of Christ's blood and crown of thorns in the holly berries and prickles."

"I always thought that was a weird line, the berries being as red as blood. Not exactly cheery in the traditional holiday sense. Still, it is a pretty song," she conceded. "I've kind of missed having music to listen to." No CDs in the nineteenth century, of course.

"Sometime—if you would like—perhaps we could go to a concert at one of the music halls, the Oxford or the Canterbury. St. James's Theatre often has operatic performances…"

"I'm not really into opera," said Buffy, remembering the boredom of her last trip to St. James's. "But a concert would be nice. Are you sure that it would be all right for Anne, though? I know she enjoyed the play, but I wouldn't want to risk her getting sick again."

"It—it wouldn't be proper to go alone." Was it her imagination or did he sound regretful of this?

Buffy stared at the little knot of singers without bothering to answer. There was a pretense of thoughtfulness in her expression, but what she was really doing was consciously ignoring the fact that William was inching himself closer to her. Her Slayer senses told her his body was just a few centimeters from brushing her own; she could almost feel the heat coming off his skin. She could feel his attraction like that, too: waves of it tickling her flesh like an unseasonably warm wind. And for the first time in days she felt as if she had come fully awake, her nerves tingling and attentive, her heart thumping in rhythm to his quiet breathing. She fixed her eyes on the carolers and waited.

"Perhaps…when the weather turns…Mother would be more fit to accompany us…" His breath stirred the locks of hair on the back her neck and she shivered at the unexpected sensation.

The thing was…although she knew she should do everything in her power to discourage it, Buffy could not help being flattered by his attention. She had never had anyone admire her this way: distantly, worshipfully. And as much as she had been trying to hold herself aloof from him, William was actually kind of growing on her. The more she talked to him the clearer it became that he was not just some foppish, Victorian version of Spike. He was weird; he was almost painfully shy; and he was so reserved made Giles look like a party animal. But he didn't seem to be a bad man. Actually, when he wasn't stuttering and blushing and behaving all spazzy he was pretty good company. And if he was attracted to her and she got some vague pleasure out of it…it didn't mean anything. Of course it didn't. All women liked it when men found them attractive.

Didn't they?

* * *

* * *

The following morning, the breakfast table was set with extra care. There were red candles decorated with holly lit at each end of the table and gold-rimmed china and leaded crystal instead of the "everyday" tableware. Each setting including a small paper Christmas cracker, but there was something extra at Buffy's place. A narrow, flat box was nestled between her empty plate and cutlery. She looked at Anne with confusion. While gifts were already a decades-old staple at Christmas in England, Buffy knew the Hartleys considered it a tradition for children, not adults. And so much had already been done for her in the way of clothing and gifts that Buffy would not have expected a present even so.

"It's all right." Anne smiled. "Open it and tell me what you think of what is inside."

Buffy pried open the hinged lid and peeked at what lay within. There, pillowed on a small bit of velvet, was the prettiest bracelet she had ever seen. It was a half circlet of heavy gold, just the right size and shape to curve over the top of her wrist. Small, dark red jewels clustered together in groups of seven so that on the circlet there appeared to be a row of eight red flowers. The bracelet was held closed by a fine gold chain, which fit against the bottom of the wrist and was adjustable. Ignorant as she was of antique jewelry Buffy could tell the object was handmade and probably very expensive.

"The stones are garnets," said Anne, thereby answering Buffy's unspoken question. "And the setting is gold, of course. I thought that it might look nice with that wine-colored dress Mrs. Simms worked for you. She finished it already, did she not?"

Buffy, who had endured a dress fitting just the morning before, nodded dumbly. "And she said she'd use the holiday as an opportunity to work over. She thinks she'll have a least two done by the next fitting. Oh, but Anne…" Her eyes widened with sudden recognition. "I can't accept this."

"Why ever not?"

"Because…it's too much. You've done enough as it is…"

"Don't be ridiculous, Elizabeth. No one is taking a tally of who is doing what for whom. If they were, I am sure we would come out well matched. But this is just something I thought would bring you pleasure on your first Christmas in London. A trifle…"

It looked considerably more expensive than a "trifle." Buffy hesitated.

"Don't you like it?" asked Anne anxiously. She cast a sidelong glance at her son, who looked away.

"Oh, yes. I love it. It's beautiful! I just don't want you to feel like—like you need to do these kinds of things…"

"Of course I don't think that! This is a gift given out of love…not obligation."

Her eyes filling at this motherly reassurance, Buffy slipped the bracelet over her hand. It complimented her slim wrist perfectly and she knew it would be an ideal accessory for the wine-colored dress. She flexed her wrist right and left so that the garnets sparkled and the gold gleamed in the candlelight.

"How does it look?"

William had not said a word during this exchange, but presently he looked across the table at Buffy and smiled.

"Beautiful," he whispered.

"Isn't it?" she asked delightedly. It did not occur to her that his comment was in regards to something other than the jewelry—or that perhaps he had not meant to be overheard.

* * *

* * *

After breakfast, William offered to teach Buffy to play chess as a way to pass the time. At first, she declined, saying that chess was a game for intellectuals and old men and insisting that since she was neither of these things, she would be too dumb to learn. However, he seemed to have been emboldened by their conversation the night before and wheedled with her until finally she agreed to try it. At least it would be something to do beside sitting and staring into the fire.

Truthfully, she was just as bad at the game as she feared she would be. She could never remember the value of the pieces with the result that often she took too great a risk with her queen and rook while refusing to sacrifice a pawn. She also frequently forgot the order in which each piece must move; William was constantly reminding her that the bishops could move only in diagonals, the rooks could not jump, and the pawns could only go forward. He harped on her for focusing all of her attention on one or two pieces while leaving the rest vulnerable to attack. She became increasingly annoyed with the row of small black pieces which collected next to his elbow while she herself had failed to capture even one of his white pieces. However, despite her shortcomings, Buffy ended up enjoying it so much that she challenged him to another game.

Anne sat crocheting by the fire while they played. She and Buffy chatted during the game, but William remained almost entirely silent, save for giving tactful advice to help Buffy improve her game. His brow furrowed in concentration as he closely mapped each of her moves and carefully planned his own. At first, Buffy thought he was taking the game rather too seriously, but later she realized that this was not exactly the case. He simply wanted to impress her with his skill.

In the latter he succeeded admirably. While Spike was known for his impulsiveness, his quickness to anger and his reckless desire to win, William was much more calculated in the mock war of the game. He was sharp and quick, yet so thorough in his planning that even had Buffy been a more accomplished opponent it was unlikely she would have found a crack in his armor. He won each game in a spectacularly short amount of time, but won with such grace that it was impossible for Buffy to feel anger over her loss. They continued playing late into the morning, Buffy alternately scowling and laughing at her own silly mistakes, William grinning shyly and curbing his own efforts that she might think she was improving.

Anne smiled sympathetically when Buffy bemoaned her third loss of the morning. "I think you must learn to plan a strategy in your head first, Elizabeth. Chess is like war; you cannot send your troops blindly into battle and hope for the best. You have to anticipate!"

"If chess is like war you'd think I'd be good at it!" Buffy sighed. She toyed with one of the beautifully carved knights discontentedly.

"And why is that?" asked Anne, looking much amused.

"Uh—never mind. Let's just say that I'm just not as good as strategizing as I thought I was."

Before anyone had a chance to reply, the gong sounded to announce lunch. William stood up, offering Buffy his hand.

"I think you are quite brilliant," he said as he helped her to her feet. "You're simply new to the game."

She might have felt better at hearing this if Anne had not suddenly made a choking sound that very much resembled a laugh.

"Yeah, I get it! So I'm not 'brilliant' at chess. At least I get credit for my enthusiasm, right?"

"Of course you do," Anne said cheerfully.

She grabbed Buffy's elbow with one hand and William's with the other and with her between them, they headed for the dining room.

* * *

* * *

Christmas dinner was so pleasant that it left Buffy feeling oddly peaceful. All right, so Willow hadn't gotten her home yet; eventually she would. And there were certainly worse places to be than in a mansion. There were worse people to be with. She went to sleep that night in a better frame of mind than she'd been in since she arrived in London.

Of course it didn't last.

Oddly enough the catalyst for such a rapid-fire shift in mood was a holiday she had never even heard of. In London—indeed in all of Britain—the day after Christmas was called Boxing Day. It was a day when the homes of the wealthy were opened to the poor and the only day of the year when begging was not frowned upon. Droves of people knocked on the Hartleys' servant door, each of them carrying a box half-filled with items of food and clothing. Throughout the morning and on into afternoon Mr. Edward patiently distributed canned goods and a coin to each man, woman, and child that came. They received, as well, a small cake made and iced especially for the purpose, to eat on their way. In spite of their rough appearances, most of the beggars seemed polite, God blessing Mr. Edward and the Hartleys extravagantly before moving on to the next home and the next set of handouts.

Despite the day being centered on the generosity of wealthy men, the presence of wealthy men in their homes was not necessary. William had followed tradition and gone to the races that morning (looking for all the world as though it was a chore and not a pleasure). Anne, meanwhile, spent much of the day in her room, reading and resting. She gave Buffy the day to do as she liked, which seemed like a good deal at first. But without a job to do Buffy quickly grew bored and before long, she found herself wandering the house rather aimlessly. She went to the servant's kitchen, but the atmosphere there was too raucous for her tastes. All the help was still feeling of a festive spirit and since neither the master nor mistress of the house wanted much in the way of service, the staff was allowed to spend much of the day in idle. Buffy was surprised to find that the decorum of the upper classes did not always extend to their servants. The under footman and the scullery maid, in particular, proved this when they were discovered carousing in a broom cupboard near the kitchen. Unimpressed by this lack of restraint (God, was she really becoming so Victorian?) Buffy left the servants' kitchen almost as soon as she arrived.

She was just approaching the staircase when a deep, pleasant voice called out in greeting to her. It was Matthew, the head groom and coachman who had driven her to the Hartleys' on her first day. He was sitting on a crate just outside the staircase's wide landing, smoking a pipe and whittling what appeared to be a chain out of a length of wood. Buffy was surprised to see him; she thought he would have been engage to drive William to the races that morning.

"Hello, Miss Elizabeth, it is not often we find you in the servants' wing. What are you doing down here with the rabble?" His eyes danced at her, taking the sting from the words.

"Oh…just trying to find something to do, I guess. It's as quiet as a grave in the house and I felt like I needed to walk around or go crazy."

Matthew grinned wryly.

"Not so quiet, I'd wager, with every tramp in two counties begging at the doorstep."

"Yeah, well. Mr. Edward is handling most of that. Wil—Mr. Hartley is away somewhere and Anne is asleep in her room. And the other servants—" She faltered.

"Are having their holiday revelries, as I can plainly hear. Why do you not join them?"

"Why don't _you?"_ she countered defensively.

"For the one thing I thought I'd be driving, but Mr. William preferred the saddle to the carriage this morning so I was wrong about that. However, I've also got a wife who wouldn't be fond of the idea of me drinking and carousing with the others. The drink doesn't really agree with me, you see. I came in here from the stables to warm up a bit."

"Oh. Well…I don't really know them. The other servants. I went in for a little while, but it was…weird…"

He nodded thoughtfully.

"I have noticed the Hartleys have taken you on for a project. All the better for you, but it doesn't make it easy to befriend the other women, I'd imagine. They're all jealous, don't you know."

"Because Anne is so nice to me? She's nice to them, too."

"Yes, though in a somewhat different way. But I rather think it is Mr. William who has set those feminine hearts against you." There was a note of mockery in his voice.

"William?" echoed Buffy, blankly. "What's he done?"

Matthew tilted his head, studying his half-finished carving with a critical eye. It was a moment or two before he answered her question.

"He gave you that pretty bracelet did he not? That's reason enough for jealousy, I should think."

"No, the bracelet was from Anne. She gave it to me as a Christmas gift…" Her voice trailed away as Matthew smiled skeptically.

"Is that what they told you? I did wonder. However, it was Mr. William who picked it out and it was Mr. William who paid for it. I know because I drove him to the jeweler's in the coach and waited outside while he made his purchase. He put a great deal of thought into it, judging by how long he was inside."

Frowning, Buffy shook her head. "But…that doesn't make any sense."

"Why doesn't it?"

"Well, why would he have given it to me? I don't even know him. He's only been home for a few days."

"He seems quite taken with you for all that." Matthew grinned at her astonished expression. "Or perhaps you haven't yet noticed it. The rest of us, however…"

"Why did Anne claim it was from her, then?"

"Naturally, he wouldn't want to offend you by doing something so improper as to give you an expensive gift. Moreover, he knew that you would not be able to except it even if you were not offended. I imagine he asked his mother to give it to you for him."

"What's the point of doing that? If he wasn't going to get credit for it, why bother?"

"Perhaps he merely thought of bringing you pleasure," suggested Matthew. "And in that he succeeded did he not?"

"Well…yes," she said uncomfortably. "I mean, I like it. But it's different if he gave it to me instead of Anne. I don't think I should keep it."

"Why should you not?"

"You said yourself it's not proper!"

"There's many a man who would give a young woman an expensive gift and then expect payment for it later. (Begging your pardon for my bluntness but it is a fact.) Mr. William did not even let on it he gave it to you, so I doubt you must worry about _that._ He's fond of you and there's no denying it, but I doubt you will have a problem with unwanted advances. He's a good man, Mr. William. A gentleman. A great lot of the women working in this house would love to be in your place."

She was fiddling with her bracelet almost without realizing it—a nervous gesture.

"Why are you even telling me this? If he didn't want anyone to know…"

Shrugging, Matthew tapped the cold ashes from his pipe.

"I don't mean to distress you. I just thought perhaps you would prefer to know. In your position, it might be advantageous to allow his affections to develop."

"Advantageous…how?" she asked.

Matthew shook his head at her ignorance. "For your own future," he said. "Mrs. Anne is possibly the sweetest woman on earth, but she is very ill. When she dies…what becomes of you?"

She hadn't thought of that. Still, to hear it put so baldly upset and annoyed her. She frowned at Matthew. "No matter what happens I really don't think I'd prostitute myself out just for the sake of staying here."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by her bluntness. "I certainly was not implying illicit relations."

"Well, I _still _wouldn't sell myself out for non-illicit relations," snapped Buffy. "And I don't want him or his 'fondness.' If I had known the bracelet was from him I would never have accepted it, anyway."

"You'd never give it back?" There was the barest hint of amusement in his tone and she knew he was just teasing her. But confusion and embarrassment had fired her temper and she retorted angrily:

"Yes, I will! As soon as he gets home!"

"Ah, come on now." Matthew's tone had become serious. "Don't do that; you'll hurt his feelings."

"I don't give a damn!"

And that said, she turned on her heel and stalked upstairs.

By chance William was just arriving home from the races when she was crossing the foyer and despite her earlier determination to confront him, Buffy suddenly found herself overcome in a fit of awkwardness. "Uh, hi."

"Hello," he said politely. He looked cold and windblown and when the footman took his overcoat Buffy could he was shivering. She felt her resolve suffer a tiny crack and instead of throwing the bracelet back in his face as she had planned to do, she asked, "So…um…how were the races?"

_Coward, _she thought to herself. But he smiled appreciatively.

"Rather cold and bleak, if you want my opinion. But the rest of them seemed to enjoy it fine." He paused. Then: "And what of your day? Was it nice?"

"Oh, yeah. Tons of fun. I think I spent half the day counting ceiling tiles. I never thought I would say I prefer work to rest, but you guys really are kind of lacking in the field of personal entertainment."

William looked hurt by this.

"The library—" he began. He looked so anxious that the crack became a gap wide enough to drive a car through and her heart softened.

"The library is great and all." She gave him a hint of a smile. "But there is a limit to how much Charles Dickens a person can read and I think I've hit mine. Anyway, hanging out with the three dimensional people can be kind of nice, too. I tried to get to know some of the other servants, but—"

"Oh, don't socialize with the kitchen staff. They are coarse."

"Yeah, I found that out the hard way," she said ruefully. "You might want to have Livvy scrub out the broom closet downstairs, by the way. It has the unsightly reek of fornication."

He blushed furiously at this and looked away. Buffy shook her head. There really were way too many taboos in this stupid century.

"Sorry," she told him. "I didn't mean that. Well, I _meant_ it; that closet most definitely ought to be cleaned. But I guess I didn't mean to word it that way." She paused. "You like my bracelet?"

Okay, so it probably wasn't the most subtle way of introducing the topic, but at least it'd get the job done. And was it her imagination or did William have a suddenly guarded look on his face?

"I—I think it's very suitable."

"Suitable?" she echoed. He swallowed.

"Lovely, I meant to say. Like yourself."

Jesus help her, this was _not_ the direction they needed to be traveling in. She tried to put more physical distance between them, at least, but found she was already standing with her back to the foyer wall.

"Very lovely," she babbled nervously. "The bracelet, I mean. It's—"

"Yes," he said. He looked mystified by her anxiety. Or terrified by it. It was hard to tell.

"It was very nice of your mother to give it to me," Buffy continued. "Anne, I mean. Your mother."

He looked completely baffled. "Yes. Shall I tell her you said so?"

"Did she pick it out herself?"

"Well—"

"It wouldn't mean the same to me if she didn't pick it out."

Low dig. She didn't intend it that way, but he looked for a moment as if she'd struck him.

"Oh," he said. And then in the blink of an eye that contrived, polite expression returned. He cleared his throat. "She picked it out."

_Lying bastard_, thought Buffy. So why did she suddenly feel like something that had crawled out from underneath a rock? Wasn't she _supposed_ to be shooting him down? It wasn't like she needed to be encouraging any affection he might have. He was Spike. It was…icky. Yet even despite this she found, oddly, that all she wanted to do now was backtrack.

"It—it's very pretty," she stammered. "I like it a lot. I mean…it means a lot to me."

"I'll tell her you said so." He looked so sad. The soft part of her heart cringed in shame and she scrambled for a way to make it up to him.

"Would you like to play chess for a while? If you aren't busy, that is. If you'd like to."

"I…I should like that very much," he said softly.

"So would I," said Buffy. And God help her she meant it. She did.

She just wasn't sure _why. _

* * *


	11. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

After Christmas, the days passed quietly, cold and grey. Monotonous. She rose at dawn, dressed before the fire, went to Anne's room to help _her_ dress, and then went down to breakfast. After breakfast there were hours in the parlor while Anne crocheted or worked at her needlepoint. She had tried to teach Buffy how to do this also, but quickly gave up once it became apparent that her nurse had not the temperament for such domestic work. Instead, Buffy was allowed to read, mornings. Or pretend to read. She did sit in her chair with a book in her lap, but rarely did she actually read it. Most of the time, she stared out the window, dazed and bored. Or worried. Now that the holidays were over, it seemed to her that time had sped up: minutes, hours, and days racing by too quickly to count. Yet there was no sign from home. No sign at all that her friends knew where she was; no sign that they were looking for a way to bring her home. She tried not to think about it, but there was little else to think about here. So little to think about, in fact, that she often found her mind circling over this idea obsessively in spite of her best efforts not to.

Perhaps if she had a group of people to distract her then she would more easily be able to keep her mind out of these frightening channels. In her own time, she had Willow, Giles, Anya, Xander, and Dawn to divert her, but here there was only William and his mother. And William was not home of a morning. He did something in the city, something merely classified as "business." He seldom stayed away a full business day. Most of the time, he returned at noon, or just after. He did not often have anything to say for himself upon arrival, preferring to keep the lunchtime discussions light and not at all personal. He still had a hard time talking to Buffy, though each day he came to the table armed with several topics appropriate for light conversation. He still blushed a good deal and he still stuttered. Yet he was interesting to talk to, being incredibly bright and well read. Sometimes, when he forgot his bashfulness, he could be quite witty. Sharp. Like Spike's twisted sense of humor but without the twist. Buffy would have liked him to stick around the afternoons and entertain her a bit, but he never would. After lunch, he crept upstairs to the library and closed the door, usually remaining there until dinnertime.

Buffy's afternoons were much like the mornings. The endless sitting in the parlor, small talk, needlework, books…the only difference was Anne took a rest in her bed at three o'clock, and so for an hour Buffy had no one to talk to at all. On fine days, she took a walk around the garden for exercise while Anne rested; occasionally she went shopping. There were days when she had a fitting with Miss Simms and had to stand for long hours, letting the seamstress poke and prod and pin. But most days she stayed at home and just sat until Anne awoke. Then they both dressed for dinner and waited for the gong.

Usually, the time after dinner proved mildly interesting anyway, William would stay downstairs and he and his mother would talk. Sometimes he and Buffy would play chess, or sometimes she and Anne would play whist, a card game that she had a certain knack for and unlike chess, occasionally won.

He wouldn't stop watching her and it worried her. Those eyes. God, was he falling in love with her? She'd seen enough episodes of _The Twilight Zone _to know that if he was then it was bad, bad news for her. Altering the past even in a minor way might change the future in some horrible, irrevocable way. It might even prevent her from getting home again. She thought at first that she would need to do something extreme to quell his growing infatuation, but she never really tried. In the first place, he was her boss. Behaving badly toward him might not just subdue his crush it might land her back in the Chapman house. But there was another reason, too; she didn't want to hurt him. Because she liked William. Although she was not quite ready to explore the depth of that feeling just yet still there was something about him…something that drew her. His social awkwardness made it difficult for her really to get to know him. Yet there was a personal connection on some level. Certainly, it was not love at first sight. But it was real; it was there. And there was some physical pull as well. He was good-looking in a stuffed-shirt British sort of way, similar enough in appearance to Spike to draw her interest but not similar enough to make her feel icky about it. But he was so strange…definitely not a young woman's ideal gallant hero. Not like Angel. And there was that concern about altering the future. If she toyed with William Spike might end up never existing at all, which would not be such a bad thing, really, except that it might keep other events from coming off, as well—events that might be integral in making her future what it was. She really couldn't afford to take that risk.

There was another risk she must not take as well. After many nights of lying awake and worrying over it, Buffy had decided that she would not interfere with anything that happened to William. It was the reason she was making it a point not to slay, because she didn't want to come across Drusilla or Darla or—God forbid—Angelus. She did not want to be faced with the difficulty of the decision that would inevitably follow. She could not kill them, any of them. To do so would screw up the timeline. William was meant to be a vampire and she must let him become that vampire. However, she knew that if she met any of the Fang Gang on the London streets they would not offer her the chance of graceful retreat. It would be a fight, one that she knew she must avoid if she was to get home.

All of this sounded very well and good, in theory—quite pragmatically Giles-ish, in fact. However, when it came time to test the theory Buffy found it rather harder going than she had expected. In fact, when it came right down to it she forgot her plan not to interfere altogether.

The real test occurred on the second day of the New Year. 1880. _The_ year. Buffy was already a bit on edge, stressing about her lack of progress in getting home, add to that the fact that they had now entered the danger zone—the twelvemonth period in which Drusilla would most certainly spawn herself a demon—and her nerves had pretty well hit the breaking point. To make matters worse, William chose that day of all days not to come home at his customary hour. If he had been the least bit like normal people then Buffy would not have worried, but he was always so unwaveringly punctual being even a few minutes late was almost unheard of with him.

At first, Buffy pretended not to notice his absence, but when lunch was served and he still had not arrived, she finally decided to say something about it.

"I wonder what's keeping William."

She thought she said it in a necessarily casual way, but something in her question appeared to amuse Anne, perhaps it was her usage of William's first name rather than the customary—and infinitely more polite—Mr. Hartley. Truly, for a servant to address the master of the house by his Christian name should warrant a reprimand, but for some reason Anne neglected to deliver it.

"Don't fret, Elizabeth," she said instead, her tone quite mild. "I am certain his business has kept him late. Truly, I am surprised he has been able to tear himself away so early, these past few weeks."

This was all well and good for a little while. However, as the afternoon wore on eventually fading into a clear, cold evening, Buffy's concern returned tenfold.

"Are you sure you shouldn't send someone to see if he's all right?" she asked, finally. "I mean, doesn't he have an office they could go to or something? It's five o'clock…"

Anne answered her calmly. "No, I'm afraid he doesn't. At any rate, we could not interrupt him in such a way while he is at his work. Something has delayed him unexpectedly, but I am sure he will be home well in time for dinner."

But when the dinner hour came and William had yet to appear, even Anne began looking anxious.

"It _is_ rather unlike him not to send word when he will be late," she said fretfully. "And the night is dark as pitch and so cold. Do you think he had been plagued by some sort of accident?"

An accident named Drusilla, thought Buffy grimly.

She picked at her dinner without appetite. For all her practical decisions to the contrary, she suddenly felt very sorry that she had not warned him against traveling on his own at night. Spike might be integral to the future—or rather, to Buffy's return to the future—but she was only beginning to realize how important William had become to her here. She had come to see him as something of a friend and the idea that he might be laying in a ditch somewhere with his throat torn out made her feel positively ill. After all, she was a Slayer. Shouldn't she have made it her priority to protect an innocent even if that did mean risking her own chances at returning home?

She fretted silently about this as she and Anne returned to the parlor after dinner. But no comfortable evening spent playing cards was _this_. They sat side by side on the settee, staring at the parlor clock and jumping at small sounds. Neither of them spoke for what seemed like a long time.

When the front door finally clicked closed at half-past seven, Buffy did not follow Anne's request that she go "see if it is he." Instead, she sat stationary, eyes on the doorway. If Dru had turned him, he would not have risen so soon, she told herself. If Dru had turned him, he would not be coming here at all. He and the rest of the Happy Family would be off somewhere, picking off orphans. This was not like Angelus; William would have no need for vengeance against _his_ family.

So she told herself, but she must not have really believed it because when he finally made his appearance, she felt a surge of relief that he was alone. That he was human.

"Sorry to be so late, Mother," he murmured, as Anne flung herself into his arms. "There were some difficulties…"

_That_ was his excuse for being seven hours late? That there were some difficulties? Buffy felt her temper flare unexpectedly. When he offered her an apologetic smile as well, she turned on him furiously.

"And you couldn't have at least sent a message that you would be gone so long?" she demanded. "Your mother has been worried to death!"

William looked taken aback, but Buffy was by no means finished with him.

"You were so concerned about Anne's health being ruined by going to see a stupid play," she bit out angrily. "But it never occurred to you that stressing over your sudden disappearance would do her no good? I'm surprised she's not coughing her lungs out right now, as anxious as she's been about your safety!"

Anne, who had not coughed once that evening, did not respond to her son's silent plea for help. Instead, she resumed her seat and watched Buffy tear into him with a tolerant—and more than slightly amused—smile.

"I—I—I am sorry if I caused any concern," he sputtered helplessly. "I'm sure I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, well. You did! And I'm your mother's nurse…and I say if she comes down sick after this ordeal it will be _your_ fault."

"I wasn't…"

"And it's idiotic to be running around the city by yourself in the dead of night, anyway!" she continued to rant. "You could've at least taken the carriage instead of going on horseback. Haven't you been reading the newspaper? Some people were found dead in Piccadilly night before last. There are vamp—thieves—running around the city now! And cutthroats! You could have been robbed. You could have been killed! Tell him, Anne."

But Anne merely shook her head at them genially and did not speak.

Buffy sighed with frustration. She tried to think of a suitable cutting parting line as she made for the door, but all she could come up with was, "I hope you've learned your lesson!"

William watched her flounce out of the room, his expression stunned.

"What on earth has happened there?"

Anne bent her head over her crocheting to hide the smile on her face. "I rather think she was worried for your safety," she told him.

* * *

* * *

Hours later, Buffy was lying in her clothes on top of the bed, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. She had half-expected William to follow her from the parlor, to apologize again for making her worry. When he did not she became slightly concerned. Perhaps she had finally stepped over the line of what was tolerable. Obviously, Anne was nothing to worry about; it seemed she saw the entire scene as nothing but a joke. But William's shocked expression might be interpreted in a variety of ways. He did not seem to have much of a temper, but suppose she had hurt his feelings or offended him. While this would undoubtedly be the quickest way of discouraging his developing affections, Buffy suddenly found she did not wish to do it. As a matter of fact, the thought that she might have hurt him made her feel more upset than ever. She didn't want to hurt him.

Long after the rest of the house was in bed, Buffy heard William's tread on the stairs. His footfalls were slower than usual, heavier, as if he was very tired or very sad. He did not turn right at the landing in the direction of his bedroom. Buffy tensed as the sounds drew quite close—for a second she almost thought he was coming to speak with her. But no. A door creaked softly and a moment later, she heard him step inside a room across the hallway. The library, she figured.

Buffy glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. The whole house would be asleep by now, everyone except two of them. She sat up in bed, moved by a sudden impulse to speak to him.

She didn't give herself time to think about it and grow nervous. She slipped into her shoes, straightened her hair, and crept into the shadowy corridor. To her surprise, the small chunk of light spilling into the hallway was not coming from the library, after all. It was coming from the half-opened door of a seldom-used room some fifty feet down from the library. The music room. A second after realizing this, she heard the music drifting from inside. It was the sound of the piano being played with a great deal of skill. Buffy was surprised. She had not been aware that William could play piano; Anne had never mentioned it during all her boastings of her son's abilities. However, a quick peep showed her that he was in there, seated before the baby grand and playing with an expertise that impressed her.

There was something sweetly plaintive in the song. The tempo was slow, but it throbbed with strong feeling. Buffy was not familiar enough with classical music to recognize the tune, but even she could hear the message conveyed therein. One of longing. It was so pretty it made her throat ache. She lingered in the doorway, listening.

When he finished and the last notes of the melody faded away, William turned suddenly to the doorway. He did it in such a way that Buffy knew he must have been aware of her presence all along. However, he did not seem angry at the invasion of his privacy. Perplexed, maybe a little self-conscious. But not angry.

"Was I…I do hope I wasn't disturbing you," he said. "I know it's quite late…"

Buffy shook her head. Having him stare at her like that after her earlier behavior, made her feel ashamed. She moved just inside the doorway of the music room so that she could speak to him without waking Anne, whose bedroom was nearby.

"You weren't disturbing me. I couldn't sleep anyway. I saw the light and I thought I should come apologize for the way I behaved earlier, yelling at you like that. I didn't—I mean, I wouldn't want to—to upset you or anything."

"You have no need to apologize," he answered softly. "I should have sent word that I would be later home than usual and I did not. I was unthinking. You had every right to be angry."

"I wasn't angry; I was worried." She smiled ruefully. "Although I can see where you might have been misled what with me screaming my head off and all. I guess I don't handle worrying too well."

"Truly, it is all right." He flushed and looked down before adding, "Although…it is very kind of you to concern yourself with my well being."

Buffy had no idea how to respond to that. She cast wildly about for a less awkward topic of conversation.

"You never mentioned that you play piano, even when we were talking about music on Christmas Eve."

"Yes, well. I only play a bit. I learned it when I was away at school."

"You're lucky," said Buffy. "They didn't teach anything like that at my school. Well, except in the marching band. But no one joined that unless they wanted to become a trumpet-toting social outcast."

He turned his rather confused smile to the wall. "Do you like Schubert, Miss Summers?"

"I liked that. It was beautiful." She took a step or two more, moving just close enough so that she could read the sheet music that was propped on the rack. Except that she could not read it, it didn't appear to be in English.

William followed the line of her gaze. "_Ständchen,"_ he told her. "From Schubert's _Schwanengesang_."

He kept glancing at the open door and by now, Buffy was familiar enough with the rules of propriety to understand the reason why. It was not respectable for two unmarried adults of opposite gender to be in a room alone, most especially at so late an hour. Still, he didn't ask her to leave. She remembered the expression on his face when she touched his arm and she looked at the bracelet clasped around her right wrist. Improper or not, she knew he wanted her to stay. The strange thing was that _she_ wanted it, too.

She did not exactly move closer to the piano bench, but she did lean over to see more closely the text printed on his music sheet. Not that she had the faintest clue of what it read or even what language it was in. But it gave her an excuse to close a little bit of the gap between them. He flinched at the movement, turning on the bench to put more distance between them. She noticed but didn't see fit to comment on it.

"What language is that?" she asked. William looked mildly surprised that she did not know.

"It's German. The title in English is 'Serenade.'"

"You speak German?" He nodded and she pressed, "Do you speak any other languages?"

"Latin," he said. "And Greek; I'm rather fond of Italian, also. I do know some French, although my accent isn't very good."

Her eyes followed the nervous fiddling of his hands on the piano's wooden ledge. It was mind-boggling to her, the amount of education this man had received only to end up a gutter-slang-talking, leather clad idiot.

"Say something in German."

"_Sie sind sehr schön."_ He said it without the slightest moment's hesitation.

Buffy made a face. In her opinion, it was not the prettiest-sounding language in the world and this lack of appreciation kept her from knowing just how brilliantly he spoke it. "Say something in French instead," she commanded.

This time it required a bit more thought.

"_Vous êtes très belle."_

"That's prettier. What did it mean?"

William smiled. "It means…the same as it meant it German."

And that was all he would tell her.

Buffy moved around until she was next to the bench, close enough to stroke the smooth ivory keys. She watched William watching her as she did it.

"Are you tired?" she asked suddenly. "I mean…were you planning on going to sleep soon?"

It was an incredibly unladylike question for her to ask, but William understood she meant no harm. Slowly he shook his head.

"Then do could you do another one, you think?" She tapped the top of the piano with her knuckles to show him what she meant.

"Yes," he said.

He stood up, lifting the seat of the piano bench to reveal a cunningly hidden compartment in which were stored stacks of sheet music. He rifled through these for a moment, separated the ones he wanted, and then resumed his seat.

Buffy sat down next to him, smiling wryly when his face reddened. Every muscle in his body looked clenched tight. The piano bench was long enough there were at least two feet separating them, but this was apparently the closest he had been to a woman not his mother in…well, maybe ever. To say Spike lied about his human past was a gross understatement. The original William the Bloody had about as many predatory instincts as a bunny rabbit.

She laughed suddenly and William paused, his fingers poised over the piano's music rack.

"Oh, I'm not laughing at you," Buffy assured him. "I'm laughing at me. I just realized…it's midnight and I just barged in on you and demanded you play me some music…and I never even asked if you'd like company. How rude am I?"

Relieved, if not exactly relaxed, William returned Buffy's smile. "It wasn't rude, Miss Summers. Actually, I…I was rather hoping that you might…that sometime..." His voice trailed away.

Buffy felt her own heart flutter and she silently scolded herself. Just because _he_ was as nervous as an alley cat didn't mean she should start getting all twitchy too. She reached out toward the sheet music and William, mistaking her purpose, quickly yanked his hand back.

"So what are you going to play for me?" she asked, pretending not to notice his discomfiture.

"Whatever you like…" He extended the sheaf of paper toward her but Buffy shook her head.

"Oh, I wouldn't know one song title from another, so you'd probably better for me."

If William thought it was strange that she claimed to like music but didn't know a single song, he didn't let on. Instead, he positioned his hands at the keys, flashed a shy smile, and began to play. This time the song seemed vaguely familiar to her and Buffy leaned across his arm to read the title. According to the sheet music, it was the first movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

It was a beautiful song and he played it well, but she barely heard the music this time. Her eyes were studying the fluid movements of his hands across the keys, the strange expression on his face while he played…as if his thoughts were on something else entirely. The idea that it might be _her_ made her stomach quiver.

"I know that the Christmas gift was from you," she said suddenly.

His hands dropped against the keys, sending the music to an abrupt halt. He turned to her slowly.

"Excuse me?" That inscrutable look was on his face again.

"Matthew told me. On Boxing Day. He and I got to talking and he happened to mention it. Don't be angry at him," she added hastily. "He just wanted me to understand who it was that gave it to me. I think maybe he thought I already knew. Or should have known. Anyway, I wasn't going to say anything to you about it, but I thought…"

"You…thought…"

"…that you might want to know how much I appreciate it. The bracelet is beautiful…a really, really…ah…thoughtful gift. It means a lot to me that you would—" She faltered.

"He should not have spoken to you," he whispered. He had the piano ledge in a death grip; his knuckles had actually gone white. "He had no right—I didn't want you to know."

"But…why?" asked Buffy confusedly. "I _like_ it…"

"Because it was not meant to…to make you feel obligated to—" He suddenly looked fierce. "You don't owe me anything!"

"Well, I'm not exactly offering myself on a plate, here—" She paused as a thought occurred to her. "Wait a second…is that why you think I've been talking to you and playing chess with you? Is that why you think I'm sitting here now? Because I _owe_ you?"

William looked away from her without answering. From the hunching of his shoulders, Buffy figured she pretty much knew what the response would be anyway, but she wanted him to say it.

"Tell me," she insisted. "Is that why you think I'm here?"

"I do not _know_ why!" he burst out.

"Well, if you want to know I can tell you! I'm here because I like your company. Is that such a shocker to you? That you might actually get me in the same room without having to pay me?"

"I was not trying—"

"Yes! I get that. But what I'm saying is…I'm here because I _want_ to be. Not because you're rich…not because you give me gifts. Just…because…"

His gaze shifted back to the piano.

"I should not have given you the bracelet. It was not a courteous thing to do…"

"It was a sweet thing to do," she argued. "I know you didn't do it because you expect something in return. I never thought that. I just didn't understand why you would do something so incredibly kind and not even want credit for it. Then Livvy told me it's the kind of thing you guys aren't allowed to do here…"

"Then why did you…why make mention of it at all?" William questioned, once Buffy's voice trailed away.

"I mentioned it because I wanted to thank you for it…William."

He was staring straight ahead and not looking at her, but Buffy could see that he was very red faced even so. She moved infinitesimally closer to him, reaching out to finger the sleeve of his unbuttoned jacket so that he turned to look at her. His eyes were anxious, but he didn't pull away from her this time.

"Can I call you William? Do you mind?"

"No, I don't mind." His voice was so soft.

"I'm your friend. I want you to know that. And I want you to be mine."

"I am your friend," he whispered. Buffy squeezed his arm gently.

"Then know that I am yours because you earned it…not because you're paying me. Or because I'm hoping to get something in return."

"I know that. I was afraid you thought—perhaps—that you were obligated to—"

"Well, I _don't_ think that, so stop worrying about it. Okay?"

"Very well."

"Good." Their eyes met and Buffy's heart thumped out of rhythm at the expression in his. His arm shuddered against her hand and suddenly Buffy realized that it was because she was kneading it like dough, rubbing her fingertips over the soft wool of his jacket. Quickly, she jerked her hand away.

"So—so is music your thing?" she asked hastily, trying to fill the awkwardness between them with conversation.

William looked puzzled. "I'm sorry?"

"Um…your passion, I meant to say. Is music your passion?"

"Oh." He smiled. "No, not music. I enjoy it, but as I said before, I don't have a great deal of skill. Just what I picked up at school. I have…other interests."

"Like what?" she pressed. She wasn't intentionally being pushy; she just didn't know any better.

"Oh. Well, I suppose—"

Before he could finish both of the sound of Anne's violent coughing startled them. Buffy looked toward the open door regretfully.

"Your mother. I'll bet she forgot to take her medicine tonight; I know I forgot to remind her. I should…"

He nodded. A little reluctantly, Buffy thought.

"Of course. Yes."

"Goodnight, William. Thanks for playing for me."

"You're welcome."

His eyes followed her as she jumped from the bench and hurried to the doorway, but it wasn't until she reached the corridor that she heard him add, very softly, "Goodnight, Miss Elizabeth."

* * *

* * *

Later that night, before she went to bed, Buffy crept into the library and looked up in a French language guide the phrase William had spoken earlier. She was sleepy and it took her a little while to piece together the different words, but when she did the translation was well worth the effort. She smiled to herself as the meaning of the words finally became clear:

_Vous êtes très belle…_

You are very beautiful

* * *


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

The following day when Anne lay down for her afternoon rest, Buffy did not succumb to the tedious boredom of sitting in an empty parlor, she followed William to the library. He had not invited her and truthfully, she was not altogether certain of her welcome there. Though no one ever came right out and said it there was an understanding in the house that the library was William's own personal space. Since he had come home no one else ever entered it, except on the rare occasions Buffy or Anne wanted a book to read. But when he was in there, doing whatever it was he did for long hours in the afternoon and late nights, no one ever intruded on his privacy. Buffy had never even considered such a thing until the previous night, when she left her bed to apologize to him. However even though she was not positive that he would welcome her into his sanctuary, she remained fairly confident. He had not turned her away from the music room, after all.

When she came to the heavy oak door, she hesitated just a moment just a moment before knocking. For all her self-assurance, she knew that expecting a man to permit her into his inner sanctum was much different from invitations into other parts of his life. The music room was all well and good, but suppose he became angry at her disturbing him here? For one thing, now the servants were awake to observe the impropriety of their being alone together. He might not allow her inside on the grounds it could ruin both their reputations. Yet when she remembered the night before—the strange, sweet expression on his face when he told her she was _très belle_—she felt she had to try if for no other reason than to know.

There was a brief silence after she knocked—a moment when she began to doubt her decision. Then his voice called out uncertainly: "Yes?"

"It's me." Buffy raised her voice enough for him to hear her but not enough to wake Anne or attract the attention of the servants. "May I come in?"

Muffled through the thick wood, Buffy could hear the sounds of a chair scraping back, followed by the soft thump of footsteps. A moment later, he opened the door.

"Miss Elizabeth," he said. She smiled at the way his voice caressed the name, moving it around in his mouth like a sweet to be savored. She could not imagine "Buffy" could sound any better. "Is everything all right?" he added.

"You always ask that like you expect me to say the wolf is at the door," she told him. Her voice was playful, almost flirting, and his eyes widened. "Actually, the house is dull as ditchwater down there and I was wondering if I could join you…that is…if you aren't busy. I don't want to disturb you."

"No," he said.

"No?" echoed Buffy, more than a little surprised.

William blinked, looking as confused as she felt. Then he shook his head, smiling with some sudden realization. "Oh, ah, I meant 'no, you will not be disturbing me.' The answer to the other question is yes. Please come in." He stepped back in order to open the door wider. He gave her plenty of room, but she passed quite close to him regardless—so close that her shoulder brushed against the hand he had propped against the door and he shuddered.

He had evidently been in the middle of writing or copying something when she knocked. On the coffee table was a stack of heavy cream-colored paper, an open inkwell, and at least half a dozen books. A fountain pen lay diagonally across the topmost sheet of stationary, which was half-covered in a neat script. When he saw her glance fall to this William moved to block her view, stooping slightly so that he could gather the papers in his arms.

"I'm sorry it's so disordered in here," he said. "I was just…involved in some work…"

"Oh, well. If you were busy I can leave—"

"No! No, please stay. I'm not busy. That is…I would much rather have your company."

There was a beautiful desk to Buffy's left, nestled snugly between two bookshelves—the type of desk with pigeonholes for sticking papers in and a roll-top to conceal private documents and letters. William hurried over to it and began clumsily stuffing the papers into the roll-top. Meanwhile, Buffy idly wandered around the room, looking about her with a smile of contentment. Although she had spent very little time in here, the library was easily one of her favorite rooms, maybe because it was far less frilly and fussy than the rest of the house. Unlike the parlor or the drawing room, she did not have to worry about navigating around shelves of expensive knickknacks or trying to sit on bits of elegant and uncomfortable furniture. This room was big and spare and comfortable, more masculine than the rest of the house, perhaps due in part to the dark wood paneling on the walls and the boldly colored wool rug on the floor. Some of the furniture was surprisingly shabby. The sofa that sat parked in the center of the room was sagging and worn, the little cherry wood coffee table slightly scarred. But there was a beautiful antique sideboard near the fireplace, its polished ledge lined with a neat row of crystal decanters and a few glasses. And of course, there were the bookshelves, at least a dozen of them. They lined the far wall, evenly spaced between each of the five long French windows. More shelves lined the walls to the right and left of her and all of them were jam packed with books.

Buffy made pretense of admiring a dried flower arrangement on the sideboard, but what she was really doing was watching him from the corner of her eye. The shy, self-conscious movements of his body...every muscle wound as tightly as a violin string. She wondered what it would be like to touch him, to knead the rigid knotted muscles of his shoulders until he was finally able to relax. And she blushed at the thought, grateful that at least his back was turned and he could not read in her face the thoughts which were crossing her mind. And perhaps it was only nervousness that made her say, next:

"So you think I'm beautiful?"

Because, consciously, she had certainly not been planning to mention his comment from the previous night. Yet the moment the words left her lips, she realized that this was exactly why she was here; this was why she wanted to catch him alone when the servants were busy and Anne asleep. She fingered a rose petal, watching and waiting for his response.

"How did you discover the meaning of that phrase?" he asked. His head was still buried in a mound of paperwork at the desk, his back turned to her, but she could detect a hint of amusement in his tone and it surprised her. She thought he would be more flustered.

"Actually, I looked it up in one of your books," she told him. "Last night."

She was worried he might be angry that she entered the library late at night without asking anyone's permission. Instead, his eyes brightened with pleasure and she understood that far from being angry he was impressed by her forethought to check the stacks for a translator.

"I—I do hope you aren't angry with me," he said. Buffy frowned with confusion and he added in explanation, "For being so forward with you, that is. I did not wish to offend you or…or to make you uneasy…"

"I'm not uneasy. I thought it was sweet."

"You did." His voice was low and Buffy saw with surprise that now he did look uncomfortable. Oddly enough, he seemed more prepared to cope with rejection than the idea of her favorable acceptance. Maybe rejection was something to which he was more accustomed. She cast about for a topic that would put him more at his ease.

"So…um…what are you reading?"

She nodded to the books scattered across the coffee table and he gestured with his hand, indicating she should look at them. Buffy made her way over to the small sofa and sat down, leaning over slightly so that she could read the covers. All of the books had rich leather bindings that appeared well worn almost to raggedness, confirming her earlier suspicions that he was a bookworm. Some of the authors' names Buffy recognized: Edgar Allen Poe, William Shakespeare, and Lord Tennyson. However, most of them were completely unfamiliar to her. One of the volumes was open and she reached for it, squinting to read the faded text.

_If I were loved, as I desire to be,_

_What is there in the great sphere of the earth,_

_And range of evil between death and birth,_

_That I should fear,--if I were loved by thee?_

_All the inner, all the outer world of pain_

_Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine_

_As I have heard that, somewhere in the main,_

_Fresh-water springs come up through bitter brine._

_'T were joy, not fear, claspt hand-in-hand with thee,_

_To wait for death--mute--careless of all ills,_

_Apart upon a mountain, tho' the surge_

_Of some new deluge from a thousand hills_

_Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge_

_Below us, as far on as eye could see._

During all this time, William had said nothing but when Buffy looked up from the poem, she saw that he was watching her. There was a bashful yet somehow oddly hungry look on his face, which made her blush. For no accountable reason she remembered the way the muscles of his arm twitched at her touch, the warm tickle of his breath against the nape of her neck. She looked back down at the book on her lap, embarrassed to be having such thoughts.

"You like poetry?" she asked. Stupid question, given that he had obviously been reading it, but at least she was talking, breaking through that awkward silence.

"I…I enjoy reading it. Yes." He moved around to the opposite end of the sofa, sitting down as close as etiquette would allow—which in all honesty was not very close. There was a curious brightness to his eyes as he asked, "Do _you_ like poetry, Miss Elizabeth?"

She flushed, a little embarrassed to admit she did not. The truth was that poetry and Buffy were non-mixy things. She tried to read it and understand it in school, but most of the time the metaphors seemed way over her head. Even the poetry book Angel had once given her as a gift was at the bottom of her nightstand drawer, cherished for sentimental reasons but never actually read by her.

"I—I don't know a lot about poetry. Always wanted to learn more…but…you know…never really got the opportunity."

"Oh, but you don't have to know a lot about poetry to appreciate it! It isn't about knowledge in the mechanics of writing it. Poetry is about…_feeling_; it is like music for your heart to follow. Thinking too much about it tends to dull the reader's perception and rob the verses of their beauty."

For a moment, his bashfulness seemed forgotten in the advent of his enthusiasm and Buffy smiled. She was trying to encourage him to say more, but instead he mistook her expression for one of derision.

"Sorry," he muttered, suddenly embarrassed. "I suppose I sounded like an overzealous university lecturer. I—I do that, sometimes, without realizing it."

He leaned forward on the edge of the sofa, reaching to fiddle with the books scattered across the coffee table, an action Buffy knew had more to do with hiding the nervous trembling of his hands than an interest in making things tidy. On an impulse, she reached out, covering his right hand with her left one and halting his forward movement.

"Hey, why are you sorry? I _like_ it when you talk to me about things that interest you. I like hearing about what you like. Usually you aren't too forthcoming with the details, it's nice when you open up a little bit."

"It is?" He looked absolutely floored by the idea, as well as by the fact that her fingers were now lacing themselves through his own.

"Does that surprise you?" asked Buffy. He nodded. "Well, it shouldn't. We're friends, aren't we?"

"Oh, yes," he breathed, still staring down at their clasped hands.

"Well, friends talk to each other, don't they? They don't constantly worry that they'll say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing. You shouldn't either." She followed his gaze—noted the very flustered look on his face—and smiled. "And you should breathe," she added. "Breathing is good. In fact it's usually required."

He laughed shakily.

"That's better."

"Miss Elizabeth…" His hand was sweaty in her grasp, little tremors skating up and down his arm. Buffy gave him a reassuring squeeze and he jerked his wrist spasmodically, sucking in a sharp breath. "You shouldn't be…"

"Yes. I should," she whispered back. "We're friends, remember? Friends touch."

William looked a bit skeptical at this, but Buffy did not give him time to argue the point. She leaned to grab a random book from the coffee table with her free hand. "So," she said, extending the cracked leather volume to him. "Tell me more about this poetry stuff."

His eyes lit up.

* * *

* * *

If she had known that something as simple as poetry would be the key to getting him to open up to her then Buffy might have done it ages ago. Her request had put him at his ease with her and the subject she picked was one about which he was truly passionate. He told her about his favorite poets, explaining the virtues of each and illustrating his points by reciting a few choice lines from their works. While Buffy could care less about iambic pentameters and Lord Byron and the like, she did enjoy listening to him talk about a subject about which he was so animated. She pretended more of an interest than she felt just to see the pleasure on his face.

Poetry was not the only thing they talked about, however. Once she got him going, Buffy found William not just willing to open up to her but almost eager as well, and he talked with the graceless enthusiasm of a man who has been very lonely for a very long time. He not only answered all of her questions but he volunteered even more. He told her about growing up in the country, spending half the year away at a boarding school where everyone wore uniforms and the teachers caned you when you couldn't learn your lesson. His marks in school were not impressive but his father's money and his own determination had secured him a place at Oxford University. He did well at Oxford, graduating with honors, but he never used the degree he had earned there. He never expected to use it. His father had died when he was nine and it was always known that once he was old enough William would bear the responsibility of the family's estate and holdings. He did not mind, he claimed. He had sought education for education's sake alone and he loved the estate dearly and missed it now that he was away. London was…quite different. Although just how it was different, he did not seem inclined to explain.

"At least there is a lot to do in London, though," Buffy said. More in an attempt to cheer him than anything else, but it backfired and his expression darkened.

"No. Not really. Not unless you like endless chatter and parties and—" He stopped.

"But there are concerts and plays and things. You go out with friends." She knew he didn't, but what she didn't know was why. She was hoping to draw him out so he would tell her but instead he just looked embarrassed.

"I suppose," he said vaguely.

"Why aren't you married?" she asked suddenly.

He looked startled by the question and Buffy realized she might have overstepped her bounds. Quickly, she apologized. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry. You just…I mean…you seem of the age to…" Her voice trailed away and there was a moment of painfully awkward silence.

After a minute William swallowed and said: "Thirty."

"What?"

"I'm thirty. Which I suppose is what you would call 'of the age.' I just…I've always been so busy with my work that it is hard to settle down…to meet people. And the ladies here are not really…they aren't…appealing. Not to me."

There was a false note in all this, but Buffy didn't pursue the subject any further. Whatever it was that kept him apart from his kind was none of her business, anyway. And she could see it was uncomfortable for him to talk about it. She cast about for another topic but before she could find one he looked up sharply and, meeting her eyes for the first time, said: "What of you, Miss Elizabeth? Why are you not married?"

There was almost a challenge in his tone and Buffy felt herself flush. Not just that but she had no idea how to answer his question. Another lie was needed, of course. Lie, lie, lie; that was all she did anymore. It was becoming increasingly difficult now that she was beginning to see him as something of a friend but what else could she do? Certainly not tell him the truth about herself. Tell a 19th century gentleman that his mother's nursemaid was actually a vampire slayer from over a hundred years in the future? He would think she was crazy. She figured the best she could do now was stick as close to the truth as possible.

"I haven't really met anyone I would like to marry," she answered. That much was truthful, at least. "In America I was pretty busy taking care of my mother when she was sick…and since I came here I haven't really met anybody. So there hasn't been really all that much opportunity for reeling in potential husbands if you get what I mean."

He got it all right.

"Yes. I am sure it is quite difficult to find a suitor when you have not met…anybody."

His tone was dull and she realized to her chagrin that he was thinking that she didn't consider him worthy of being a suitor. Not that she did of course. Nobody here needed to be suiting if she wanted to get home. But—

"Except you," she said suddenly. William cocked his head at her.

"Pardon me?"

"Except you," she repeated. "I've met you."

"Oh." He looked down into his lap. "Yes. You have."

"Would you read me that poem?" She picked up one of the volumes from the coffee table and handed it to him, adding in explanation: "The one you were reading when I came in. The love poem." She knew it was wrong to do this, to string him along. But God help her she couldn't stop herself. He really was kind of adorable.

Up until this point, their hands had remained entwined, but presently William pulled his from her grasp. He toyed with the book uneasily. 

"I couldn't do that," he said. There was a dark blush creeping up his ears and neck, and his mouth was working nervously. Buffy found it incredibly sweet and she became ever more gently persistent because of this.

"Why could you not?" she asked.

"Because…because I could not hope to do Lord Tennyson's beautiful words justice."

"Sure you could. You have a wonderful voice."

"I—I'm so awkward—"

"I don't think you're awkward," she told him. Not true, but what she wanted him to know was that it did not bother her. Underneath that self-conscious gentleman was something heated and magnetic, something that was steadily drawing her out of her comfort zone. For the second time in less than an hour, she found herself reaching out to touch him: running her hand up his arm so that her palm rested on his shoulder, her fingertips just grazing the bare skin of his neck. She wasn't sure of what she was doing; she wasn't even sure of why. All she knew was that when she was with him, when she was touching him, all the tensions and worries faded from her body. When she was touching him, getting home was the last thing on her mind.

The amazing thing was that now he was letting her touch him, he had always gone out of his way to avoid it before. Now he let her fingertips stroke the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck, nails coaxing gooseflesh and the slightest trembling of his bottom lip. She could tell by his posture—very strained and upright—that he was holding himself back, waiting. Not just waiting to see how far she would go but waiting to see how far he would allow her to go.

Before either of them had a chance to find out there was a rap of knuckles on wood, and Buffy looked up just in time to see Livvy appear in the open doorway.

"Sorry to disturb you, Master William," she apologized while dropping a quick curtsey. "But Mr. Edward wishes me to tell you that you've got visitors."

"Visitors?" William sounded as surprised and disoriented as Buffy felt. Livvy looked from one to the other of them curiously.

"Yes, sir. Here's their card, sir."

William's face paled as he read the inscription on the calling card and for a moment Buffy could have sworn she saw an expression of blind panic in his eyes, but it was gone before she could be certain. In the next instant, he was offering her his typical polite smile.

"Would you mind taking this card to my mother?" he asked. "I…I need to compose myself."

He was up and gone before she even had time to reply.

* * *

* * *

Callers were rare in a house with an invalid. In the month she had been living with the Hartleys Buffy had not seen a single one and she had come not to expect them. The arrival of Ellen and Cecily Underwood was cause for a good deal of rushing around by the servants, who were similarly unprepared for guests but must do their best to make the Hartleys proud. Mr. Edward ushered them into the drawing room (a space rather like the parlor only rather larger and with even fancier furnishings) and served some light refreshments while the Hartleys composed themselves for company. Buffy helped Anne get dressed and groomed after her nap—not such an easy feat when one was pressed for time.

"Who are the Underwoods?" she asked Anne as she worked. Judging from William's reaction to their arrival, she figured they must be very important or else very disagreeable.

"The Underwoods are family friends," explained Anne. "Ellen is lady of the house; her husband is president of the Gentleman's Literary Guild, of which William is a member. Cecily is their eldest girl, a very bright young woman she is, too. She's just come out, you know."

Come out? Buffy frowned, trying to figure out if this was a reference to lesbianism or just another obsolete British term that she did not understand. However, she did not have long to contemplate this because presently Anne motioned her into the hallway. William was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, but despite of Anne's claim that the Underwoods were "family" friends, he seemed no more enthusiastic about their arrival now than he did in the library. In fact, Buffy thought he looked tense and nervous—even a little bit annoyed—at the prospect of entertaining callers.

Anne proceeded to the drawing room on her son's arm. Buffy had thought that as a servant she would not be a required presence during this visit. Yet Anne called her forward when she would have held back in the hallway. When she stepped into the room behind William, she presented Buffy to the Underwoods proudly, introducing her as a "family friend" (lot of that going about, thought Buffy) and explaining that she was there to "help with my illness." The two visiting women exchanged a peculiar look upon receiving this information, but they smiled quite nicely as they welcomed Buffy to London.

They sat down then and Anne fell into easy conversation with her guests. William did not seem so comfortable as his mother. Nevertheless, he managed to maintain a polite—if somewhat stilted—dialogue with Cecily. Buffy did not talk much at all. For one thing, the Underwoods did not seem very interested in talking to her and for another she was too busy looking at the two women to think about what she might say to them. After all, this was her first close up view of high society ladies other than Anne and she could not help being curious about them.

Ellen Underwood was a tall, slim woman of forty or so. Her dark, wavy hair was untouched by grey and her face, though showing the beginnings of age lines, was still quite lovely. She was wearing an elaborately trimmed dress of dark red silk and wore heavy jewels at her ears, neck, and breast. She was a somewhat overconfident woman, bordering on haughty but not unkind. She seemed genuinely affectionate of Anne and concerned for her well being, though Buffy had a feeling these warm wishes might not extend to William; for some reason Ellen's demeanor towards him was distinctly chilly. Ellen's daughter, Cecily, was probably a few years older than Buffy. She was quite as slender as Buffy but not so finely boned (for some reason this pleased Buffy, who glanced at the girl's not-as-diminished corseted waist with a feeling of satisfaction in her own tiny figure). Cecily's face was oval-shaped like Ellen's, but it was not quite so sharply angled. She had a flawless and very fair complexion with fine black brows and big sloe-colored eyes, and her hair was a mass of tiny ringlets, pulled high on her head and held with a jeweled comb. While certainly not a ravishing beauty, she was attractive and very well turned out even for an upper class Victorian woman. She was also very refined. She asked all the correct questions, gave all the correct answers, and always deferred to William and the two elder women in all discussions. In short, she was the perfect lady.

Buffy didn't like her.

She could not say why exactly, though it may have been due in part to the fact that William's eyes turned to Miss Underwood quite frequently even when he was not speaking to her. For the first time it occurred to Buffy that she might not be the only woman he found attractive and for some reason the thought rankled. Yet there was something else that bothered her as well, a certain insincerity in the girl's manner. Cecily's side of the conversation sounded almost memorized, like lines from a play. In fact, when Buffy looked closely it was obvious that they were just lines. Composed as her expression was, Cecily's eyes were bored, a little restless, and it was apparent that she had little interest in William's responses to her questions. Buffy knew she was eager for the visit to draw to its close.

Still, niceties must be observed. After an appropriate length of time chatting with William, Cecily turned her big dark eyes on Buffy.

"Miss Summers, I understand you are from America are you not?"

"Yes." Something about the girl's gaze made Buffy uncomfortable and she looked away, her face heating self-consciously.

"What a lovely place that is. At which part did you live?"

"The western part," answered Buffy evasively. "California," she added when Cecily looked questioning.

"California!" Cecily's eyes widened. "Is that not a wild and dangerous place for a woman?"

Buffy glanced at William uneasily. Up until this point, she had managed not to go into a great deal of detail about her past. She was well aware that she did not know enough about 19th century America make up a believable description of her life there, particularly if William and Cecily were as well read as she thought they might be. She was hoping he might rescue her from a slippery topic, but the suddenly animated look on his face told her he was interested in her answer, too.

"Well…it's a little rough, I guess. But a lot of people think it's a lot worse than it actually is. Really, the west is becoming pretty settled." She had no idea if this was true, but it sounded well and she crossed her fingers that no one would dispute it.

They didn't.

Cecily sighed. "I have heard that America is a most diverse and exciting place," she said. "I have done some traveling but not to America. However, some day I should love to go, if Father says I might. What is it like there? What did your father do?"

Her mind drew a blank. God in heaven. What _did_ people do in California in the 1800s? Vaguely she remembered a teacher at school mentioning a gold rush, but to claim her father was a prospector seemed too silly to contemplate.

"Umm…he was in the export business," she said finally. She was not entirely certain what the export business was but California was right there on the ocean, surely he could have exported something somewhere.

It seemed an acceptable answer to Cecily, who nodded and smiled. Buffy was afraid she would ask how her parents had died, but she failed to take into account the rules of polite conversation. Cecily would have never asked her any truly personal questions at their first meeting, nor would she have alluded to such a painful subject. In fact, she changed the topic swiftly and with tact.

"I do hope you are enjoying London thus far?"

"Oh, yeah—I mean, yes, thank you. I haven't gotten the opportunity to see a lot of the city because of the cold weather, but what I have seen is beautiful. The Hartleys have been very kind to me. They have helped me to feel right at home."

Cecily's smile widened in a way Buffy did not like, it seemed almost derisive. However, her tone was as moderate as ever when she answered, "I am sure they have been. The Hartleys are a lovely family. Very…generous…"

What was she implying? Buffy looked to William for help, but he was now in the middle of a discussion with Anne and Ellen. Flustered and angry, she looked down at the carpet without answering, but she could feel the girl's eyes on her for several minutes afterward.

Their conversation pretty much died on the vine after that, but fortunately, the visit was drawing to its close anyway. Only a few minutes later Ellen Underwood rose from her chair. She regretted she could not stay any longer, she said, but she had several more calls to make while the weather was fine. However, she thanked Anne for the tea and conversation, and she promised to drop in again one day soon. To Buffy, she extended warm wishes for an enjoyable stay and expressed her pleasure that she had an opportunity to meet such a charming young woman. Cecily said very little at all, save for parroting her mother's farewells.

"Well!" said Anne, after they had seen their guests to the door. "That was quite a nice visit, wasn't it? Very kind of them to stop in."

Since neither woman had been overly friendly to her, Buffy's response to this cheerful observation was less than enthusiastic. However, she was surprised to see William frown also.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "I suppose it was…"

* * *

* * *

The next morning, Buffy was helping Anne dress for breakfast when Livvy knocked on the bedroom door. She entered carrying a cream-colored envelope sealed with red wax, which a messenger had just delivered. Livvy said the letter was for Miss Summers, but at first Buffy thought their must be some kind of mistake—she never got mail here. However when she looked closer she saw that indeed it was her name on the front of the envelope, addressed in a fine, feminine hand. Quickly she checked the return address.

"Miss Cecily Underwood," she read aloud. She glanced over at Anne. "Wasn't that the girl who was here yesterday?"

"Yes, it most certainly is," answered Anne, who looked just as perplexed by the letter as Buffy. "Yet I can't imagine why she would be writing to you…"

Buffy shrugged. "Well, there's only one way to find out."

She slit the envelope with a hairpin, drawing from it a single sheet of very crisp, cream-colored paper, almost like a card. The message inside was written in a script so elaborate she could hardly read it.

_Miss Cecily Underwood_

_Requests the Pleasure of Miss Elizabeth Summers' Company_

_Saturday, January Eleventh at Seven o'clock_

_Dinner, Dancing, and Amusements_

_R.S.V.P._

Buffy frowned at the card, rereading it several times before passing it over to Anne. "Okay, so am I wrong in jumping to the conclusion that this Cecily person is asking me out on a date? I hope I'm wrong…because otherwise this is a really awkward situation."

Anne made an impatient noise.

"Honestly, Elizabeth, it is scandalous the way you talk sometimes! This is an invitation to a ball! It is quite short notice for one, however. Three weeks is the customary, and I believe William received his card over a month ago. In fact…well…I cannot imagine why she would invite you. After all…" she faltered.

"I'm a servant," Buffy finished for her. "It's all right, Anne. Nice as you have been to me I haven't forgotten my place. And I'm guessing the classes don't mix much over here, right?"

"No. They certainly do not," Anne conceded. "But it isn't that I'm thinking of, Elizabeth. William and I have been most discreet about your post. But it's very odd of her to invite you when the two of you have met only once."

"So you're saying I shouldn't go then?"

Anne looked surprised by the question. "Do you _want_ to go?"

"I don't know. Cecily and I didn't exactly bond yesterday, but it would be nice to get out of the house for a while, meet some new people. We've been kind of cooped up, what with the cold weather." Buffy shrugged. "But if I shouldn't go…"

"Of course you may go if you wish! Send a card back to them straightaway and let them know you will attend."

"But William said…I mean…it wouldn't be suitable for me to go without a chaperone, would it?" asked Buffy confusedly. She was remembering William's comment on Christmas Eve. "I wouldn't want people to think you were housing a woman of ill repute or anything."

"Under normal circumstances you would be correct," answered Anne thoughtfully. "It _isn't_ polite of young ladies to venture out at night without an older chaperone. However, you have no alternative for I cannot go with you. I shall speak to Ellen and I am sure she will look after you at the ball. It will be appropriate enough if you take care not to find yourself alone in the company of gentlemen." She smiled brightly and patted Buffy's hand.

"And William will be delighted to escort you, I'm sure."

Buffy was pretty sure of that, herself.

* * *


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

When Anne told Buffy that William would be "delighted" to escort her to the ball, it was with the same assumption Buffy herself had: that William was so enamored of her he would be delighted to escort her anywhere. Neither of them could have anticipated his true reaction to the proposal, which could be described at best only as a total and encompassing lack of enthusiasm. This was evidenced quite clearly in the single word he gave as answer to Anne's gentle broaching of the subject at breakfast that morning:

"No," he said bluntly.

Anne's face fell with a poorly concealed look of disappointment. She placed her fork on her plate and leaned forward, turning her full attention on her son.

"No?" she echoed.

"It's not possible."

"Why on earth not?"

"Because I am not planning to attend the ball myself," he answered simply. "Therefore it would be rather difficult for me to escort Miss Summers."

"Not attending? Of course, you shall attend! You accepted that invitation almost a month ago! Why would you not attend?"

"I have changed my mind is all. Those people that are sure to be invited—David Havisham, Charles Archer, and the rest—they are vulgarians. I would prefer not to associate with such people." He arranged his face into a carefully contrived expression of haughtiness and for a moment, he looked so silly and pompous that Buffy had to choke into her napkin in order not to laugh.

However, Anne did not seem much amused.

"Vulgarians," she echoed blankly. "William, what on earth are you talking about? These people you have known since boyhood. We have seen them every Season since you were a little child! They are not vulgarians, they are upper class gentlemen. And you have always been most fond of Cecily…"

Buffy looked up from her eggs in time to see William flush guiltily.

"Be that as it may, I don't wish to acquaint Miss Summers with them," he answered stiffly. "I have no interest in attending this function at all."

"But _why?"_

"I have my reasons!" he insisted stubbornly.

Anne looked most annoyed with him, but Buffy remained serene. In her mind, there was no doubt she could convince him to take her to the ball; she just had to find the right means of persuasion. She knew his weak spots well enough by now.

"It's all right, Anne," she said sweetly. "If he doesn't want to go that's his decision. I even understand it, to a certain extent."

His head snapped around to face her.

"You…you do?"

"Of course I do. How embarrassing would it be for you if you walked into a party with me and everyone found out I was your servant. It's beneath you to take me, I get that." Buffy shrugged as if this was of little consequence, but William shook his head emphatically.

"M—my servant? No! Miss Elizabeth, I was not insinuating—"

"It's okay. I understand. And don't worry; I'm not angry about it. You people have a class-based society here; it isn't your fault. But you have to obey the rules anyway, right? You have been too nice to me already. Technically, I shouldn't even be at the same table with you, should I? It is not as if we are friends, after all. I'm an employee…"

Anne seemed bewildered by this train of thought, but Buffy knew William understood implicitly. He looked stricken.

"Y—y—you don't understand. It is not that I do not wish to accompany you…but it would not be proper. We would be without a chaperone. It would look…"

"It would be a bit unorthodox, I'll admit," said Anne soothingly. "Yet I cannot see why anyone should object if the two of you take precautions to keep things quite proper. After all, Cecily did invite Elizabeth; she obviously wishes her to attend. And Elizabeth herself was so excited by the prospect of a night out…"

He looked over at Buffy, blue eyes softening behind the glare of his spectacles.

"You want to go so badly, Miss Elizabeth?"

"It would be nice," she told him. "I've been in London a month and the only people I've met are the two of you. A party would be…nice. But it's all right,"

William sighed heavily. He knew when he had been outmatched.

"You'd better ring for Matthew straight away after breakfast," he told Buffy resignedly. "He can take the card around to Mrs. Ellen when he exercises the horses."

Anne smiled proudly at him. "There," she said brightly. "I knew you would see reason."

But William was not listening to her. Underneath the table, Miss Elizabeth had kicked his shin and when he looked over at her in surprise, she grinned at him. Try as he might, he could not resist the charm of that lovely, happy expression and he smiled back at her.

The loss of the argument was worth it, he thought, just for that.

* * *

* * *

Buffy could have felt hurt by his reluctance to escort her to the ball. Under normal circumstances, with a normal man, she probably _would_ have felt very hurt by it. When it came to William, however, her ego just would not permit her to believe that the reason he did not wish to go was that he did not want to accompany her. She knew better. It was true that he had accepted his invitation to the ball the moment it arrived, almost a month before (and quite enthusiastically, according to his mother). It was also true that he obviously had some kind of interest in Cecily Underwood—at any rate, he certainly did stare at her a lot when she came to call. Yet Buffy knew whatever he felt for Cecily it did not diminish the attraction he had for her. He still quietly sought her attention and eagerly accepted her company, even when it meant breaking the rules. And it almost always involved breaking the rules.

Not that they had a great deal of time for rule breaking during the following week. Whatever business it was he attended to in the city was suddenly keeping William away from home for large chunks of the day, and Buffy herself was busy getting ready for the ball. This meant hours upon hours spent standing like a statue while Miss Simms poked, prodded and pinned, creating a ball gown of which any woman could be proud—and a testament to the fact that William's apathy of the ball did not extend to Buffy's enjoyment of it. It was William, after all, who ordered the dress made.

This dress had started out humbly as an evening gown of midnight blue velvet: pretty enough for a middle-class woman's Sunday best but not nearly so fashionable as it could have been. The train was far too short, for one thing, and it lacked the lace and frippery that were hallmarks of Victorian style. Buffy had cringed inwardly at the thought of having to face a roomful of elaborately turned-out girls while wearing such a plain gown, but she didn't think there was anything to be done about it. She couldn't complain, not when Anne had already gone well out of her way to buy her these few, simple gowns. Yet her discontent must have showed somehow, because two days after the blue dress was finished, Miss Simms showed up on the doorstep again, armed with her sewing kit and an order to trim the dress lavishly and to Miss Summers' specifications—and hang the cost. Ostensibly, Anne commissioned the gown, but according to servants' gossip, the orders were actually at William's request. He had noticed Miss Elizabeth's displeasure with her current frock and had prodded his mother into having it changed. Since there was no time to tailor a new dress, Miss Simms was told to alter the existing garment, and as Buffy soon learned, a seamstress with two assistants and unlimited use of the family funds could achieve amazing things in just four days' time. By the day of the ball, she had a frock that looked as though it had just stepped off a 1880s Parisian fashion plate. Delicate, hand-made Irish lace trimmed the flounced shoulders of the bodice and cascaded over the bustle and into a well-lengthened train. The bodice had been adjusted to a wide V-shape, which showed more than a little bit of cleavage and outlined her abdomen in a way that, for the day, was both fashionable and quite daring. Elbow-length kid gloves in light blue were the perfect compliment to the dress, and the matching high-heeled dancing slippers were so pretty Buffy felt she could even overlook the fact that they were devilishly uncomfortable. With some of her monthly wage, she went to a shop and bought a blue heart-shaped stone on a fine gold chain to wear around her neck. It was costume jewelry made of cheap glass, but it matched her dress and kept her from looking so bare in that low-cut neckline.

Naturally, one would want to do justice to such a beautiful outfit and the evening of the ball Buffy took two hours to get ready. Most of this time she spent in arranging her hair because, in a world without electricity, the only way one could curl one's hair was to heat iron tongs over the fire and painstakingly curl one strand at a time. Since the tongs cooled quickly, Livvy had to reheat them each time she moved on to a different strand, and since Buffy had a lot of hair this meant that the process took quite a while. Yet the result was good, and looking at herself in the glass afterward, Buffy got the oddest sensation. With her hair piled up on her head and wearing that elaborate gown, she held almost no resemblance at all to her previous incarnation as Vampire Slayer. Not only that, but she did not even feel like that person. She was Elizabeth Summers, American lady in Britain, a prim little Victorian archetype. The odd thing was that she _liked_ it. For the first time in years, she was able to shed the burdens of her calling: she was without responsibilities. And damn it, the longer she stayed here the better that felt.

The good feeling was still with her as she descended the staircase some ten minutes later. It was six-thirty in the evening and the Underwood ball would commence in just a half hour's time. Buffy's primping had caused her to run a little behindhand and William was already pacing at the bottom landing when she appeared. Beside him, Anne was consulting the small gold watch, which hung from a chain around her neck.

"Elizabeth, you took rather a long time to dress, it's already half-past the hour. We were wondering what kept you." Her voice was full of motherly concern and Buffy flashed a reassuring smile.

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to make sure I looked nice…it's my first party here, after all."

If she had possessed any doubts about how well she looked, the way William stopped his pacing to stare at her dismissed them immediately. He was watching her fixedly, as if completely unaware of anything else. Had he been any other man the intensity of his gaze would have made her think he was mentally undressing her. Yet in all the time it took her to reach the bottom of the staircase, she never once saw his eyes leave her face. He was not smiling, just staring at her with the strangest expression. If Buffy didn't know better, she might have called it awe.

"Well, your efforts have certainly paid off," Anne complimented her. "You look lovely, Elizabeth." She turned and lightly prodded her son. "Does not Miss Summers look lovely this evening, William?"

He came out of his reverie with a slight jump.

"Oh…yes indeed." His voice was throaty and so soft it was difficult to hear him. "She looks—that is, Miss Elizabeth, _you_ look—quite stunning."

"Thank you." Buffy smiled. "You look very nice also."

That much was true. He was wearing a suit of dove-grey—a shade that was far too light to be fashionable, but it looked wonderful on him. His waistcoat was almost the same color of dark blue as her dress, embroidered with a gilt thread like stars in a night sky, and his cravat was blue-and-gold striped to match. He had done something with his hair, it looked flatter than usual and he had brushed it out almost completely straight. Buffy didn't like it as well. Even though the new style was more in keeping with the fads of the day, she missed the tumble of curls that once fell over his forehead. When she made idle mention of this, he immediately put his hands to his hair, combing with his fingers until he had completely eradicated the effect that had taken so long to achieve.

This act simultaneously amused and annoyed his mother, who disliked the untidiness of his standard style but could not help feeling moved by his devotion to Miss Summers. Still, she knew that the spirited young nurse must be curbed if she was to be a success in London society and Anne stifled her smile for a more severe expression.

"Elizabeth, I trust you have been studying on ball etiquette these past few days?"

Buffy, who had done little more than skim over that section of her etiquette guide, nonetheless nodded confidently. "I have it all memorized by heart, Anne. Don't worry about me."

Her self-confidence did little to reassure Anne, yet her relaxed back into a smile when she turned to her son. "You'll see to it Miss Summers gets along all right, William?"

He gave a little nod of assent even as his eyes remained fixed on Buffy. "Of course, I will."

Despite this promise, and the small smile that followed it, Buffy could detect a hint of worry in those expressive blue eyes. She knew by the way he held his shoulders alone that he was feeling tense about the evening to come, although she could not imagine why. She didn't like to ask him with Anne standing there; she was so apt to worry about him anyway. But as soon as they stepped out into the cold dooryard, Buffy grasped his coat sleeve in her fist to hold him and whispered, "What's wrong?"

He turned to her, his face coloring slightly, though whether this was from the question or the touch of her hand she didn't know. At any rate, he did not seem inclined to discuss what was bothering him.

"Nothing is wrong, I assure you," he said quietly. "However, it is very cold out and I fear you will take ill if we stand discussing it. The coach is waiting."

She stifled a sigh at this but nevertheless fell into step beside him as he made his way down the dark walkway to the carriage block. It was then that she received the first in a long series of shocks that evening. William's bay saddle horse was tacked and waiting beside the coach, its proudly arched neck and fine, slender legs putting the heavier, duller carriage horses to shame. She turned to him questioningly.

"You're not riding with me?"

He flushed.

"Riding alone in a closed carriage with me would…it would ruin your reputation. I would never do such a thing to a lady."

"But you can't ride," she insisted. "You said it yourself—it's freezing out here. You'll get pneumonia riding around on horseback."

"I will be fine I assure you. The Underwood home is in Mayfair, which is not far from here, and my overcoat is quite warm. Now please…let me help you into the carriage before you catch a chill. You are not dressed so warmly as I."

Buffy did not much relish the thought of riding to the party alone. As excited as she was to be meeting some new people, she couldn't help but be nervous as well. And these people were William's friends; she was sure she would be more at ease to arrive at the party on his arm so that he could introduce her to everyone. The idea of stepping out of the carriage alone while a bunch of people she did not know stared at her was unsettling, and the butterflies in her stomach began flutter in mad fright. She felt a flash of resentment that William would do this to her now.

He saw the sulky expression in an instant, so that once he had helped her situate herself in the coach he did not go to mount his horse as she had expected him to do. Instead, he stood beside the carriage, one hand propped on the open door. "After a bit of a wait, the carriage will pull up at the block in front of the Underwood house," he explained patiently. "And a footman there will help you to alight. However, I will be there to walk you inside. You will not have to do that on your own. It is merely that they must see that you were not riding with me. Do you understand? I don't want them to think ill of you."

"William, I don't understand why you're so worried. These people are your friends, right? I mean…" She looked at him curiously. "They _are_ nice people, aren't they?"

"That is something you must ascertain for yourself."

This was not exactly an answer to calm her jittery nerves, but William refused to elaborate any further. He turned away from the carriage and went to his mount.

It was odd that as self-conscious as he was on the ground he seemed so poised on horseback. She had never actually seen him ride before, and now she was surprised to find how upright and confident his posture was in the saddle. Buffy peered out the carriage glass, watching with interest as he trotted down the cobbled driveway, keeping well ahead of the coach. When they reached the main road, where it was not so slick, he flicked his crop and the animal took off in a fast canter that quickly became a gallop—a speed that in this icy weather could well get him picked up by the police. He took the turn onto Park Lane so quickly that his horse left the road and had to clear a hedge to keep from going down. He was well out of sight before the coach even reached the corner.

* * *

* * *

The Underwood's house was located in Berkeley Square, which by society standards was the _crème de la crème _of London neighborhoods. Judging from the huge and ostentatious residences on either side of the Underwood's huge and ostentatious house, Buffy could see why. If the Hartleys lived in a mansion then this place was almost a palace. Not only was it several hundred square feet larger than the Anne's house, but it was also far more ornate. To Buffy's tastes, it seemed almost _too_ ornate, bordering on tacky, but even she had to admit it was impressive. And intimidating.

The carriage pulled between two large stone columns that served as supports for the open wrought-iron gate. There was a short gravel drive, which ended in a cul de sac in front of the house, and a long line of carriages was waiting on that drive to let off passengers at the door. It seemed a long time before Matthew was able to pull up to the block and let Buffy out. When he did, she was almost loath to move. There were so many people milling about that at first she had no idea where she should go. She slowly walked in the direction of the house.

There was a small cluster of men standing on the wide front steps and Buffy had not gone far before she realized that one of the men was William and that he was waiting for her. He had been in conversation with a sandy-haired, mustached man but politely excused himself as soon as she came into view. He hurried down the steps to offer her his arm.

"Well, and what do you think of it?" he asked her quietly.

"I think that if you always ride your horse like that you'll end up breaking your neck," she answered. He chuckled good-naturedly.

"I knew there would be a wait here; I wanted to be sure of having the horse up well in time to meet you off the coach."

"You came in as though you were following the hounds, did you not?" a voice asked beside them. Buffy startled and turned. The mustached man was standing next to them.

William dropped Buffy's arm.

"I—ah—Miss Summers, this is Charles Archer. Charles, Miss Elizabeth Summers. Miss Summers has recently joined us from America, of course."

Charles Archer lifted his hat and smiled at Buffy from beneath his bushy mustache. "And a lovelier wild rose from America has never graced our fair city," he said extravagantly. He lifted an eyebrow and added archly, "And from all I have heard I am sure William agrees with me, don't you old chap?"

Buffy returned Archer's smile and murmured an appropriate hello, but she could not help noticing the way William's eyes narrowed at Archer's gallantries. Had he been reluctant to attend the ball because he did not want Buffy to meet other men that might show an interest in her? He certainly gave the appearance of being jealous now, and he cut into their conversation with a rudeness that was heretofore unseen in him.

"Yes, well. Although I do hate to cut short our chat, you must excuse us, Charles. I have not yet seen our hosts and I am sure there are plenty of others who wish to meet Miss Summers…"

With an apologetic smile at Archer (who seemed more amused than upset) Buffy followed William through the huge oak doors and into the house. "You were very impolite to Mr. Archer."

William's lips tightened at this admonishment, but his tone remained level as he answered: "You don't know the man."

"No, I don't. But I know you and you aren't acting a bit like yourself this evening. What is the matter? Are you afraid people will talk about us for being here without a chaperone?"

"Mother spoke with Mrs. Underwood about the matter and she will act as your guardian this evening if need be. It is all quite acceptable, considering the circumstances."

"Well, if that's the case then why are you having such a hard time enjoying—"

"The man is a guttersnipe," he cut in shortly. "And I should think you would not wish to make acquaintance with such people. I'm sure I don't."

Buffy smothered her smile of amusement at this. She suspected his dislike for Archer was nothing more than a boyish show of jealously and she wondered if she should call him on it. Before she could make up her mind, however, she found herself distracted by the extreme opulence of their surroundings. The foyer of Underwood house was so large the upstairs of the Revello Drive home could easily have fit inside and so lavishly decorated, she felt as though she had taken a wrong turn into Buckingham Palace. There was an enormous crystal chandelier suspended above their heads, the light of each ivory-colored candle reflected and refracted in the sparkling clear crystal. Rich wood trim work gleamed from ceiling and floors, and the walls were covered in deep red wallpaper scrolled with gold leaf. It was all so pretty that Buffy didn't realize she had stopped walking to look around until William took her by the elbow and drew her to one side to prevent her from being trampled by a crowd of new arrivals.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as they made their way through the congested entryway. "I got distracted, I guess. This is a gorgeous house."

"It is rather nice," he admitted. "And the ballroom is beautiful beyond compare. Yet I think I prefer the simplicity of our home."

"So do I," she told him, and he smiled.

After a quick visit to the ladies dressing room to remove her cloak and check her hair, Buffy joined William in what was known as the "receiving line" upstairs. The ballroom was on third floor and they must wait in that seemingly endless line in order to greet their hosts. Meanwhile servants were circulating within the group, carrying silver trays. Buffy thought they must have hors d'oeuvres and she reached forward eagerly when one man extended his tray to her. To her disappointment, he was not carrying food after all, but small cards bound together with little silver-topped pencils. Buffy took one confusedly.

"What are they?" she whispered to William. She was embarrassed having to ask, but he did not seem too surprised by her ignorance, nor was he condescending when he explained the rather complicated system of "dance cards." Evidently, the cards listed the names of the dances and next to each, a blank space. If a gentleman wanted to dance with a lady, he must first obtain her permission and then write his name in the space beside the desired dance on her card. It was in this way that a lady kept track of whom each dance had been promised to that evening.

Buffy was still marveling at this strange practice as they moved to the front of the line. Ellen and Cecily Underwood were standing just inside the doorway of the ballroom, their hands extended graciously to the ever-moving line of guests. William murmured an abbreviated hello to each of them and Buffy, after a slight pause, did the same. After this, they were free to do as they liked—within reason, of course—until the dancing commenced.

Now was the time when the guests greeted each other and chatted, as the gentlemen began to fill the women's dance cards. William introduced Buffy to so many people she did not even bother trying to remember all their names. It didn't matter anyway; most of them did not stay to talk very long, although a few of the men did commandeer some of the dances on Buffy's program. She noticed that each time this happened the muscles in William's jaw seemed to contract just a little bit more, though it was not until they had a few minutes alone that he said anything about it.

"I am not a skilled dancer."

Buffy had been admiring the elaborately dressed musicians that sat in a small group off to one side of the room, and at first, she did not hear him. When he repeated himself, she was not sure what to think of the comment.

"I'm sure you're fine," she said. "I'm the one who should be worried…this is my first ball—or, um, my first British ball, anyway. I'll probably make an idiot of myself somehow."

William ignored her interruption as though he never heard it at all. "What I mean to say," he continued doggedly, "is that you—you might not wish to dance with someone as inept as myself. However…if you could overlook my awkwardness…perhaps…"

Suddenly realizing what he was getting at, Buffy extended the dance card to him.

"Which ones do you want?" she asked with a smile. "Fill them in. I've been cooped up so long I am ready to dance every dance…and if all of them are with you then even better."

His hand trembled as he took up the pencil and it took him some time to fill in the ones he wanted. Yet when he returned the card to Buffy, she saw that he had not requested more than five of the twenty-four different numbers. She looked at him questioningly and he offered her an apologetic smile.

"Although nothing would give me greater pleasure, it would not be seemly for me to monopolize your company this evening. I—I hope you understand. I hope you aren't hurt…"

Buffy was not hurt. If anything, her smile had widened when she looked up from reading the dance card. Every dance he had requested was a waltz, slow and romantic.

* * *


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Chapter Thirteen**

The ball was not turning out nearly so well as Buffy had hoped.

For one thing, the dance card system was doing her no favors at all. For some reason, the only men who asked her to dance were complete social outcasts. If they weren't as old as dirt then they were fat, or boring, or stupid, or they had some other disagreeable quality that clearly earmarked them as the "undesirables" of the group. Unfortunately for Buffy, she had no way of refusing their requests to dance, for they could see whether a number was taken just by glancing at her card. She had little choice, therefore, but to spend much of the evening trying to avoid having her feet crushed by overweight, middle-aged bachelors. Even when she sat out a song or two, she got no reprieve. William was nowhere to be seen, so she sat down on one of the small seats in the corner of the room. The older matrons of the group generally occupied this small clump of chairs, and they did not seem pleased when Buffy invaded their territory. They glared at her suspiciously when she sat down and almost immediately began asking personal questions she did not want to answer.

_Where are you from?_

_What did your father do?_

_How do you know the Hartleys?_

_How came you to be in London?_

_What is the duration of your visit?_

Buffy stumbled through these questions as best she could, but the sidelong glances those women kept shooting one another she knew she had not done well. After the interrogation was finished, they turned their backs on her and began to have a whispered conference amongst themselves. She did not have to hear their words to understand what they were saying: What on earth was a good lady like Anne Hartley doing, taking such a common girl as that one into her home?

By this time, Buffy desired nothing so much as to leave that hateful ballroom. Even to slip away to some quiet alcove for just a few minutes. She might have done it, except that her next eager partner was waiting for his dance, making absurd gestures as he beckoned her to the edge of the floor. So she sighed and fixed a smile to her face, ready to spend yet another song trying to avoid being stepped on while her companion clumsily maneuvered his corpulent body in the graceful steps of the quadrille.

As she suffered this, Buffy's eyes and her mind were on anything but her partner. She was looking for William, who, as a gentleman, should have been dancing every number so as not to leave any of the ladies sitting out. Yet he was still strangely absent from floor or even the sidelines. He was not in the ballroom at all and he did not show up until just before the _minuet de_ _la cour_, almost an hour later. It was _his_ dance, this third waltz of the evening, and he had appeared for the express purpose of claiming it. And even though Buffy was still slightly puzzled by his absence during the first part of the evening, she could not hide her pleasure at his return. When he slid his arm about her waist, she felt that the night might just be salvaged, after all.

True, he was just as awkward on the dance floor as he had promised to be, but somehow this did not matter. And he wasn't horrible at it. He didn't step on her toes, nor was he hopelessly out of rhythm. He was just so very tense, struggling to figure out how closely he should hold her and how quickly to move his feet and what to say. It was actually kind of endearing how hard he tried. When he asked her if she was enjoying herself Buffy rewarded his effort with a soft squeezing of her hand on his shoulder and a brilliant smile.

"Of course I'm enjoying myself," she murmured into his ear. "I'm with you, aren't I?"

"You flatter me," he said quickly. "Though actually what I meant was these past two hours. Have you been enjoying the ball? I heard on fairly good account that you seem to have had no lack of willing partners…"

She detected a hint of jealousy in his tone and smiled. "Willing, maybe," she conceded. "But not exactly enviable. I've been all right, I guess, but talking to some of these men is about as interesting as watching paint dry. What about you?" she added. "I haven't seen you all evening, on the dance floor or anywhere else. You haven't been courting the ladies in some dark recess, have you?" She said it lightly enough, but there was a trace of jealousy in her tone as well. The memory of his ogling Cecily Underwood was still fresh in her mind and the thought that he might have slipped away to do more of it was galling.

He flushed, confused by the insinuation. "Why…no…I would not…that is, I do not…"

"Well then where have you been? I haven't seen you in ages. And I looked for you, you know."

"You did?"

"I was hoping you would come rescue me from the four hundred pound dancing wonder, Neville," she explained. "He's been back three times and each time he tells me how light I am to hold while at the same time lumbering across my feet like an ox. My toes are just about crushed."

William laughed at that—really laughed, not just his customary quiet chuckle—and several of the nearby couples looked at them curiously.

"I am sorry, Miss Elizabeth. Although I must point out Neville has many fine qualities if not grace on the dance floor."

"Fine qualities my aching right foot," she quipped. "The man has lamed me! I think he broke a nail. You should have come to my rescue, gentleman that you are."

"I'm sorry," he said humbly. "I was not aware you were in need of rescuing. I was downstairs in the parlor."

"What were you doing down there?"

"I was...talking with some of the gentlemen."

Something about the way he said it led Buffy to believe he was not being entirely truthful. Again, the specter of Cecily Underwood flitted across her memory and for a moment, jealousy choked her. But of course, Cecily had not left the ballroom in that time; he could not have been with her. And the way he was holding her…the look in his eyes when he spoke…Buffy could not believe he would be more interested in another woman than in her.

Yet neither could she let the matter drop.

"Talking with gentlemen?" she echoed questioningly. "All this time? Why haven't you been dancing?"

"I—I don't care very much for dancing."

So he said, but the almost possessive tightening of his arm around her waist told Buffy differently. He enjoyed dancing very much if it was with the right person. The thought warmed her, but she could not resist the desire to tease him, he made it so easy.

"Oh, well. If you want to stop then—"

"Not at all!" William said. His hand was resting on Buffy's lower back and at the first suggestion that she might draw away he braced his palm more firmly in an attempt to keep her with him. However, he underestimated his own strength—or more likely overestimated her desire for retreat—the result being that he pulled her off balance, throwing her forward against his body.

For a moment neither of them moved. Buffy couldn't even think about what to do with her feet now. Aside from the fact that she had almost fallen, she was also stunned to find herself leaning into him, her breasts pressed into his chest. Through all the layers of clothing they were both wearing, she could feel the feverish heat of his body; she thought she might even be able to feel his heart beating. When she tilted her head back to look at him, she realized with a shock that his mouth was just a few centimeters from her own.

"Forgive me," he whispered. And she was dazed by the warm caress of his breath against her skin, by the slight trembling of his bottom lip so close to her own.

"Forgive you…for what?" she asked.

"For making you feel as though I did not wish to dance with you when in fact it was what I have been looking forward to all evening."

"Was it?"

"The only thing I have looked forward to," he amended hoarsely, and she shivered at the intensity in his tone. In his eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the thought that she should not alter the past, that she should not have allowed this to progress as far as it already had. But the thought was vague and faraway. To Buffy, it seemed a concern from long ago, a concern stifled by the greater desire for him to verbalize the longing in his expression. If he would only say it—if he would only do what she knew it was killing him not to do—

He released her abruptly and took a step back, and she realized with a start that the music had stopped and the waltz was over. Stephen-something-or-other, her partner for the next number had already approached them and bowed to her the way polite men did. Buffy returned his smile mechanically and tried not to notice the pained look on William's face as another man drew her into his arms.

* * *

* * *

There were fourteen dances during that first part of the evening and then the "supper room" opened to the guests. It was nearly ten o'clock by then and Buffy should have been famished, but this was not the case. The dining area was crowded and so elegantly turned out that she felt in a constant panic lest she break or spill something. Not only this, but because Victorian party procedure strictly dictated that one should not be seated next to the person she arrived with, Buffy was not permitted to dine with William. She ended up at the complete opposite end of the long table, surrounded by people she did not even know. People she was beginning to think she didn't even want to know.

The fact was that several of the party guests kept looking at her as though she were an animal in a zoo. At first, she was concerned that something had happened to her hair or dress and surreptitiously looked in the back of her soupspoon to check. However, aside from being a little flushed from the heat of the room she looked almost exactly the same as when she had walked in. She thought then it might be because she was an American and therefore foreign to them, although as she began to overhear bits of conversation she realized this was not exactly all of it. Being American made her a novelty to them, of course. But living with the Hartleys made her a joke. In fact, the more she overheard conversations about her—and them—the more she came to understand that she was seen as being distinctly under their charity. Or under William's charity. And the Victorian "ladies" made no bones about why they believed he was being so generous.

One red-haired young woman who sat three or four places down table from Buffy was especially blunt in her criticism. She was not speaking loud, but the room was fairly quiet and Buffy had sharp ears anyway, so she could not help overhearing every word.

"I have heard quite a few rumors about Miss Summers and that she is not what she seems. The Hartleys' cook told our scullery maid that she is nothing but a glorified servant come to help Anne while she is ill. Apparently, she arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back, and William took her up and gave her everything she has. Can you imagine anything quite so distasteful?"

The blond girl sitting next to the redhead made a face as though she had bit into a lemon.

It's all so vulgar, really," she sighed with the flit of one hand. "Yet what can one expect? What other woman would have our dear William? His only recourse would be to purchase one…"

The redhead screeched with horrified delight at what was, for 1880, a very risqué statement. She collapsed into giggles against a third, dark-haired girl's shoulder and said, "Cecily, do you agree with Catherine? Or do you perhaps lament the loss of your bold suitor?"

Cecily.

Buffy's head snapped around in their direction. Yes, there she was, Cecily Underwood. The same young lady who had so graciously greeted them when they first arrived was now coloring with anger at her friend's joke. She lifted her chin haughtily.

"I can assure you it is of supreme indifference to me what he does."

The red-haired Catherine gave a shrill laugh. "To be sure! Why else would you invite him, then? One would certainly not consider herself fortunate to be in William Hartley's affections, yet to be cast out of his affections in favor of a servant girl from across the sea must be—"

"I find that to be most fortunate of all!" snapped Cecily. "Do you think I shall miss that fool giving me calf's-eyes from across the room while he writes that absurd poetry of his? I would have washed my hands of him long ago, if Mother were not so fond of Mrs. Hartley. As it were, she insisted I invite him to our gatherings. I asked Miss Summers in the hope she would offer him a distraction and so far this proves fruitful."

"I should say it has!" agreed Catherine in a scandalized hiss. "Did you note how closely they danced together? She was leaning against him and their faces were almost touching!"

"Who would not have noticed it?" demanded the blonde. "Though I have never thought much of William I would _never_ have suspected such impropriety from him as that. Likely it is the influence of the American…"

The American, meanwhile, was endeavoring not to hear the rest of their conversation. She wished she had not heard as much as she had. It made her feel dirty, somehow. These people saw her as nothing but a gentleman's mistress, a project taken up by William so that he could have female companionship. They were interested in her not because she was an American but because she was a scandal. That was why none of the women would speak to her aside from putting her through the third degree about her past. That was why the only men who would dance with her were ugly and single and—and _weird._ They thought because of what she was they could all of them have her if they wanted her. They thought she was for sale. She was sitting at a table with a hundred people who all thought she was a prostitute.

Appalled by the realization, she started to rise. She had to find William. He had to take her home because she was sure as hell not spending the rest of the evening listening to a bunch of catty women call her a whore.

As it happened, dinner was ending anyway, and Buffy found that leaving was not as easy as she might wish. The crowd around the door was dense and their progress into the corridor was slow. She looked around for William. Just seeing him, just hearing his voice would take this dirty, humiliated feeling from her she was sure. But William was nowhere to be seen. Either he had slipped away from dinner early or he was caught further back in the throng. She thought then that she might linger near the doorway to the ballroom and catch him as he went in, but as she edged her way into that vast room a voice suddenly rang out and stopped her.

"Ah, Miss Summers! How are you enjoying yourself this evening?"

The voice belonged to Charles Archer, the "guttersnipe" she had met out on the steps when she arrived. Now he was standing in the near corner of the room with another man, this one rather younger than he was and with a closer clipped, neater mustache and dark hair. He looked familiar, but Buffy had met so many people over the course of the evening that his name escaped her. Not that it mattered. Charles seemed to be doing most of the talking, anyway. He also seemed to have drank a great deal of champagne at dinner, which meant his talking was at a volume twice that of the people around them.

"My very dear Miss Summers!" he boomed, his enormous sandy mustache stretching into a smile as he approached her. "We were wondering when we would get a chance to speak with you!"

While he had not said anything offensive, there was something in his expression that Buffy did not like, and she backed away from him slightly before she answered.

"I have been here all night," she said brusquely. However, Charles refused to see the implication.

"Of course you have," he answered gaily. "And now you _must_ allow me to have the pleasure of a dance. I am a fine dancer, as any lady in this room can attest, and it would be the pleasure of my life to lead a lovely creature such as yourself in the next waltz."

For a Victorian gentleman he was certainly being rude and overly aggressive about asking her, but Buffy felt it would be easier to endure one dance with him than to refuse. He was a little drunk and she didn't want him making a scene. And she knew she could handle anything he could dish out on her anyway. If any part of his body tried to wander somewhere inappropriate then she would take that appendage, break it off, and shove it up his ass for him.

However, despite the obvious intoxication, Archer did not try to grope once they were on the floor, and he was a surprisingly skilled dancer. More skilled than William, although she did not enjoying dancing with him nearly so much, perhaps because he insisted on yammering on at top volume the entire time.

"Miss Summers," he bellowed as they moved slowly within the crowd. "Tell me all about yourself. I have never had the pleasure of meeting an American before. Do tell me all about your home there."

Buffy opened her mouth to answer him, but before she could, he interrupted.

"And tell me all about how you came to be with the Hartleys here in London; I am quite interested in knowing. I know they appear to be quite taken with you. Our own dear William is said to be simply mad for you, as a matter of fact."

"Is he?" Buffy asked. Her tone was light but her hand clenched his so hard it was a wonder he didn't cry out with pain. Maybe the alcohol kept him from feeling it.

"Of course he is," Charles stated firmly. "You must know this. In fact—has he written you any of his poetry yet?"

Buffy stared at him blankly. There was that word again.

"Poetry?" she echoed. In her confusion, she had stopped dancing. Archer clasped her waist more tightly and began dragging her about in the appropriate patterns to keep her from standing in the way of the other couples.

"Don't tell me you haven't heard William's poetry," he said suggestively as he pulled her around.

"No, I haven't."

Archer grinned like a Cheshire cat.

"Oh! But you must!"

As soon as the number ended, he pulled Buffy off the floor, leading her over to where he had spotted William standing near the door. That distinctly jealous look was on William's face again and Archer noticed it at once and with pleasure.

"William, my good man," he said smoothly. "Miss Summers has just told me you haven't read her any of your poetry! Now how can you keep such talent as you have hidden? Go on—do favor us with a recitation."

William, by now standing just a dozen feet away, looked dumbfounded. Buffy glared at Archer furiously, but he spoke again before she could make any retort.

"He does come up with some of the most inventive verses!" he said, in a confidential yet clear-carrying sort of tone, which brought the attention of everyone close by. He tapped the side of his head thoughtfully. "There was one in particular…it was composed at a party rather like this one if you can imagine! Now, let me see…How did it go…?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy saw William's face go red and then white in horror.

"…something about how Cecily there had skin as radiantly white as a moonbeam sparkling on a mountain stream. Cecily!" he called out to her. "Surely you can remember the verse?"

Across the room, Cecily looked simply livid.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about," she said coldly. "But I suggest you lower your voice, now. You are making an even bigger fool of yourself than the fool poet of which you speak." She turned her back on them.

Archer laughed easily.

"Ah, romantic disappointment! Well, I suppose you must ask William to tell it in its entirety," he sighed. "Although I daresay you should not want to hear his love-poems to other women when I am sure he had written you plenty of your own. I did see him in the parlor earlier, scribbling away like mad—"

Buffy's head whipped around just in time to catch William making his way through the crowd and out of the room.

"Oh, I fear I've embarrassed him," chuckled Archer. "Yet I cannot see why he should attempt to keep his talent thus hidden—"

"You know," Buffy interrupted him swiftly. "Whatever else he has, William has a talent for being pleasant and kind—something you people obviously know nothing about."

Archer's eyes glittered.

"Ah, yes!" he answered, and his voice had dropped to a whisper only she could hear. "Do tell me about William's kindness to you Miss Summers. I am quite fascinated by _that_ subject."

"If you think—" she began. Her voice was shaking with rage, but Archer misinterpreted it as feminine weakness and quickly went in for the kill.

"It is not what I think, my beautiful lady." He leaned in, blowing his hot breath into her face as he added, "It's what _everyone_ thinks. It is in fact one of the reasons you are here tonight. We had to see the woman who had our William behaving like a man in his dotage—the woman who had him so entranced that he must keep her in his household as well as in his bed. You must understand how very odd it is for a gentleman to make a pet out of a servant girl. And you see…well…we had always figured William for something of a poofter…"

She had raised her hand without even realizing she was doing so, and when these last words passed Archer's lips, she struck him, her hand cracking against his cheek so hard he actually stumbled backward from the force of it. He looked furious, but in the sudden confusion of a new crowd of people entering the ballroom, no one else seemed to have noticed that anything was amiss. And before Archer had sufficiently recovered from his shock to say anything, Buffy was gone.

* * *


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Chapter Fourteen**

As concerned as she was for his state of mind, Buffy knew William would not have left the Underwood home altogether. He was too much of a gentleman to leave her to go home at night, unescorted, even if he was in the middle of an emotional breakdown. He would find some quiet corner to hide away and lick his wounds, but he would not leave her; she was sure of it. And in fact, she was right. After a bit of a search she found him in the large walled-in garden at the back of the Underwoods' house. There was a narrow path that wound through snow-covered flowerbeds and leafless fruit trees and at the end of this path was a small pond, its water icy and dark like a black ink-spot on the white canvas of snowy lawn. At the near edge of the pond sat a little white stone bench, half-hidden by a copse of leafless rose-trees and William was sitting on this bench with his head bowed. His back was to her, so he didn't take note of her arrival until she touched his shoulder.

"Hello there," she said softly.

He looked up briefly and she saw that his eyelashes were wet as if he had been crying and that his expression—the sweet, soft expression to which she had become so accustomed—was twisted with anger.

"Excuse me," he said coldly. "I wish to be alone."

He started to rise and would probably have walked away had Buffy not been so quick to react. She slipped around in front of him and pressed the palm of her hand flat against his chest, pushing him back down on the bench. He seemed a bit thrown by this at first, as he always was when she touched him. Then his expression hardened with resolve.

"Let me up."

"No," she said softly. "You're upset, you shouldn't be alone. Anyway, it's late and cold. Anything might happen to you if you go out on the streets now." _Or anyone,_ she added silently.

"You needn't concern yourself with my safety; I am well capable of looking after myself. Pray go back inside and—and—and finish your dancing. I fear that your absence leaves Mr. Archer lacking a partner."

Buffy winced at his hostile tone.

"Do you honestly think that is what I want?" she asked softly. "To spend time with a man like Charles Archer? He's probably the first human being I've ever met that has absolutely no redeeming qualities. He's a complete bas—uh, idiot."

"Why were you dancing with him then?"

"Not out of choice, I can promise you that! He asked me and he was drunk; I didn't want there to be a scene if I refused. I didn't know he would behave like that. He was perfectly civil earlier, so I thought—"

"You _knew!"_ His voice was ragged with pain. "I told you—"

"You told me that you didn't like him and that he was a—a gutter wiper, or whatever. You never said why. And I would never have allowed him near me if I had known. William…" She knelt down and gripped the lapel of his jacket, forcing him to look at her when he would have turned away. "I would never intentionally hurt you. Don't you know that?"

He pushed her hand away, unable or unwilling to let go of his anger.

"This is why I did not want to come tonight! I—I didn't want you to see how they view me. All of them. They are not my friends as you assumed. I'm nothing more than a—a fool they use for sport. I told you I did not wish to come and you—you wanted—"

"You're my friend. I wanted to spend time with you."

"You wanted to make new acquaintances," he bit out. "You said as much. The simple society of our household wearies you. I understand! You yearned to meet more exciting persons than myself—younger, more appealing—more—more in keeping with yourself."

She stared at him, transfixed by the intensity not only of his words but his appearance as well. He'd turned his head to the side so she couldn't see his expression, but his chest was heaving with his heavy breaths, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. The posture of his entire body was one of restraint: holding himself back, reining himself in. The anger was leaking out, but she realized that the cause for it—that hunger, that terrible longing he had expressed since the beginning—was once again being shunted aside, smothered and hidden from view.

Repressed.

How she wished she were better at this! She wanted to put her arms around him, to tell him that she knew how he felt and that it was okay. But she was afraid that he would not allow it, that it would only upset him more for her to try. Instead, she knelt down in the snow at his feet, cupping her hands over his own fisted ones so that he looked over in surprise.

"I wanted to spend time with you," she repeated quietly. "Even though we live in the same house it seems like we never have time to talk or…or anything. I thought this might give us the chance to…you know…do something fun together. I had no idea things would turn out this way or I wouldn't have suggested it."

His anger seemed to depart at this, leaving him sad and strangely listless. Depressed. His head dropped down and when he spoke again his voice was weary. "Then I suppose I should ask your forgiveness for ruining your evening."

"Don't say that. You didn't ruin anything. Just because they don't like your poetry doesn't mean that I—"

His head shot up so abruptly that Buffy had to leap back to avoid a collision.

"_Poetry!"_ He spat the word as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth and for the first time Buffy noticed the bit of crumpled paper he held in his left hand. He brandished it at her like a weapon, exclaiming, "This isn't poetry, it is scribble! Stupid, senseless scribble! Do you realize that they call me 'William the Bloody' because of my bloody awful poetry?"

William the Bloody, a name that would someday strike fear into the hearts of men until he replaced it with the equally dreaded but perhaps more modern epithet of "Spike." Yet that name—a name destined to be the subject of cold sweats and frightened whispers—had been born out of no greater crime than the unrealistic literary ambitions of its gentle human owner. Later on the irony of this would send Buffy into gales of helpless laughter, but not now. Now her thoughts were too taken with the idea of the poetry itself, she had heard so much about it. She moved closer, curious. However, his desire to speak on the subject seemed to wilt and he sighed heavily without saying anything more about it.

"I am an embarrassment to you," he said instead, "as well as being a shame to Mother. I am…an outcast."

"Hey…" She took his chin and lifted his head so she could look at his face. "You didn't embarrass me. Those snobs were embarrassments to themselves, that's all. As for the party…well, it isn't really my kind of shindig anyway. I don't think I would have enjoyed it even if the people weren't all shallow and rude. For one thing, the music sucked."

"I am sorry, Miss Elizabeth."

"Don't be. You're the person I most want to spend time with so, hey, it looks like I'm still a winner. Right?"

His lips twitched in what might have been the shadow of a smile and even in the dim light of the moon, she could see a blush staining his pale cheeks. He did not seem to know just how to reply and the silence which followed was lingering, but oddly comfortable. Buffy took advantage in the lapse of conversation to sit down on the bench beside him. She sat rather closer than was proper because it was quite cold and she had forgotten her cloak, but he didn't seem to mind. She was trying to decide whether she could slip her icy hands into his coat pocket when suddenly he turned to her with a startled expression.

"Miss Elizabeth! You should not have followed me out here. There will be talk…"

"Does it really matter if there's talk?" asked Buffy. "I mean…those people in there are complete morons Do you really care what they think?"

He looked uncomfortable.

"I—I care about your reputation," he said finally. "And Mother's. I should not wish to disgrace either of you. If we stay here people might accuse you of being—" He hesitated.

"A woman of loose morals?" she suggested.

William shifted uneasily. He seemed to be struggling to find a polite way to answer, but before he could come up with something Buffy spoke again.

"If that's what you're worried about then I think you're a little late. My, uh, lack of virtue was one of the favorite topics with the women in there. Your own Miss Underwood and her friends were having a heck of a time speculating about the two of us. Not to mention Charles Archer and the sweet nothings he whispered on the topic." She moved a little closer to him, leaning across his shoulder so that she could whisper her next words directly into his ear: "Apparently, they all think you're paying me for my company."

His eyes were fixed on that little pond, but Buffy saw his lips tighten, two thin lines scoring the space between his eyebrows.

"They said as much?"

"Basically." She looked at him closely. "They also said you were once in love with _her_—Cecily. Were you?"

He turned his face away, feigning a great interest in the snowy shrubbery to his right, but Buffy knew he was still listening by the way he flinched when she said, "They told me the poetry you were writing….was for her."

"Yes. I heard them." His voice, like his answer, was tight and controlled.

"So do you still do it?"

"Do I…?"

"Write poetry?"

"Occasionally." The word came out almost pained; Buffy could actually see him wincing as he spoke.

"Just about Cecily Underwood? Or do you write about other things as well?"

"No—I—I didn't—she—she wasn't—" He stopped for a moment and rubbed the back of his neck: a single, frustrated gesture. Buffy realized he knew exactly what it was he wanted to say, he just couldn't figure out how to say it.

"There were only a few poems to Cecily," he finished finally. "A very few that I wrote before you came to us. She has always been so polite and well received that I could not help but feel some…admiration. Charles, as you might have noticed, is a man who likes to take it upon himself to learn the business of others. I never mentioned anything about my…feelings…but I suppose he must have guessed. They all must have guessed."

"Are you in love with her?" She almost hated to ask, but part of her had to hear him say otherwise. Her stomach clenched painfully as she waited for his answer.

"No! I thought at one time…but the feelings I had for her…they weren't…real…Not like—" He stopped but the unspoken words hung between them: _Not like my feelings for you._

The knot in Buffy's stomach relaxed considerably at that and she managed a smile.

"You don't write about her now, I guess. So what do you write about? Have you moved on to other women? Another woman…?"

"I—I'm sorry. But might we change the subject? I don't really wish to discuss this now." He really did look desperate for a new topic.

Buffy shrugged.

"Okay."

"Thank you."

She reached out, touching the side of his face very lightly so that he looked up.

"It's just that if you ever _do_ feel like discussing it—and if you have some poetry that you wrote about me—I would really like to hear it."

"You would?" William looked dazed. Clearly, her words were just as unexpected the soft caress which preceded them.

"Yes, I would."

Her hand stroked softly down his jaw, coming to rest at the side of his neck right above his collar. Even in the cold winter air, his skin was hot to the touch, his pulse beating in rapid staccato against her fingertips. When he did not attempt to break the contact, she grew bolder, tracing the pad of her thumb across his full bottom lip. There were streaks of drying tears just underneath his eyes and she reached up with her free hand, gently stroking the moisture away. He seemed almost hypnotized by her touch, his eyes slightly unfocused and his mouth falling open just a little bit.

"Tell me," she whispered.

"Tell you…?"

"Your poems—are some of them about me?"

William looked down at his feet so the fringe of his lashes covered his eyes. He struggled through several false starts before finally managing to answer her. "They are about how I feel."

"Yes. But are they about me?"

Buffy half-expected him not to answer the question at all, but suddenly he raised his head, staring directly into her eyes with a kind of feverish intensity.

"Only you!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "Since you came to us…every poem…every thought…every _syllable_ has been…"

He seemed so agitated, now. As if he thought that she would laugh at him like the others, and he had to say what he felt before she did. Buffy's heart went out to him, he looked so vulnerable. Her hand dropped from his neck to his shoulder, which was twitching convulsively.

"William…don't…"

"Please, I—I—I know it's sudden. And I won't bother you about it, if it makes you uneasy. But…if there is a chance you might come to feel the same way about myself…I love you, Miss Elizabeth."

Her heart thumped out of rhythm.

"I—I know I'm nothing special that you should care for me," he continued swiftly before she could respond. "But I am a good man. And all I ask is that—is that you t—try to see me—"

He looked almost painfully red-faced and flustered, his words an agonized stutter that came to an abrupt end when Buffy gently squeezed his shoulder.

"I _do_ see you, William," she whispered. "I…like what I see…"

He looked shocked by her answer, almost afraid to believe it. "You…like…?"

The expression in his eyes made her heart ache. How could he be so surprised to hear this, after all the moments they had shared? Did he really think himself so unworthy of her affection? She wanted to find some way of telling him, some way to make him understand just how happy he made her, but as usual when it came to matters of the heart, words eluded her. Instead, she reached out to him physically, tracing the edge his crisply starched shirt collar with her fingertip, following it to the buttons at the middle of his throat. She undid that tightly fastened top button then gently pulled his collar aside to expose the tender, untouched line of his throat. She leaned down just a little, found the throbbing vein just underneath the surface of the skin—that place Drusilla would have ravaged and bled—and she pressed her lips to him and kissed him there.

"I like everything about you," she said.

* * *

* * *

Afterward, the walk to the Underwood carriage block had a strange, dreamlike quality to it.

Barring all concerns for propriety, William still could not ride home in the carriage with her; he had to take the horse back. But he waited by the block with her until Matthew arrived, and he gave her his overcoat when he realized she was shivering—this despite the fact that the temperature was well below freezing and he had nothing but his thin suit jacket for the cold ride home on horseback. Buffy tried to argue with him about the foolishness of it, but he wouldn't listen. He draped the heavy wool garment over her shoulders and guided her arms into the sleeves, then helped her to button it. When he finished, he grasped the lapels and leaned his forehead against hers, his warm breath coming out in white puffs as he whispered huskily, "My love…"

There might have been more but she didn't hear past those two words. His love. She was his. She was—

Was she in love with him?

_You've done just what you said you wouldn't,_ a little voice in the back of her head whispered. _You've changed this time; you made him love you. You changed everything and you'll never get home now._

The realization should have terrified her, but instead she felt an odd sort of peacefulness, the corresponding thought: _I don't care. I don't want to go home._

And she didn't.

When he helped her into the carriage, William slipped a piece of paper into her hand, the same bit of crumpled stationary he had held in the garden some half hour ago. Then he had called it scribble and had clutched it as if he might tear it in two. Now he pressed it into Buffy's grasp with a soft kiss to her knuckles and a small, bashful smile. He walked away before she could ask what it was, but she didn't need to ask. She knew.

She waited until the carriage was on the street and William's horse out of sight before she unfolded it, read it in the dim light of the street lamps shining through the glass.

_My soul has awakened from a lonely dream_

_By an angel's flutter of feathered wing_

_Too lovely!_

_This apparition of golden gleam_

_Whose presence is like a summer sunbeam_

_Ungentlemanly is this desire,_

_Yet still I feel I must indulge in it!_

_And take a moment to admire_

_My love's true beauty, effulgent_

* * *


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Chapter Fifteen**

He was waiting for her at the carriage block. She knew he would be, although his horse had been out of sight for most of the ride home. Had she not known—and if she had not been looking to see him there—she might not have noticed him at all. Though lights were shining dimly in the front windows of the house, the lawn and the walkway were dark, the carriage block barely illuminated by the gas lamps on the street. William was a blurred shape against the shadowy landscape of the lawn, his grey suit slightly lighter but almost indistinguishable from the velvety darkness around him. Almost indistinguishable, except that he was moving. And she was looking for him.

She leaned a little forward in her seat, peering out the glass to watch him. He must have ridden hell for leather because he had obviously been home for a while. A groom had already stabled his horse and James, the under footman, had brought him a coat. The heavy dark broadcloth was for everyday and it was not so handsome as the one he had loaned Buffy, but it was warm and comfortable and she saw him hunch his shoulders gratefully into the folds, turning his back to the cold wind.

He and James seemed to be talking companionably, but presently, as the carriage rolled up the drive, William whirled on James and made some hasty, irritated gesture to him and by the time the horses had pulled even with the block both James and the lantern were gone, and William was standing in the shadows alone. He pulled open the door for her and made a little bow.

"Miss Elizabeth."

His voice had that familiar tremulous quality to it, although he seemed to be struggling to sound dignified or distant. The attempt at formality was probably for Matthew's benefit, because the coachman was still sitting on the box and listening to them with unprofessional interest. However, Buffy understood what he really meant and she smiled.

"William." She daintily accepted his proffered hand and stepped down from the coach. He started to draw away once she alighted, but she linked her index finger through his and did not let him. Nor did he insist upon it.

His eyes followed the carriage as it moved away from them around the side of the house to the coach-house at the back. Then they dropped, focusing on the tenuous grip she had on his hand. Even in the darkness, she could see how his Adam's apple quivered with the out rush of a trembling breath.

"Miss Elizabeth…" he began.

"Just Elizabeth," she cut in softly. "We don't have to bother with the 'Miss' anymore, do we?"

He made a strange sound, almost like a laugh but not quite. "No…I suppose we don't."

She moved a little nearer to him, tilted her head up so that she could see his face in the moonlight. "William, about your poem—"

"Forgive me," he interrupted. Buffy's jaw dropped.

"Huh?"

"I—I know I am rather lacking as a poet. I know my verses are clumsy. I hope you don't take their artistic merit as a reflection of the depth of my feelings for you. If it were…then I should be writing sonnets worthy of Shakespeare himself."

This speech he delivered breathlessly with his head turned to one side so as not to look directly at her. Even so, Buffy could see the deep red stain in his cheeks, the anxiousness of his blue eyes. An almost alien sensation of tenderness washed over her. Impulsively she leaned across the space still separating them and grazed her lips across the sharp plane of his cheekbone.

"William, I thought your poem was beautiful."

His eyes drifted dreamily closed. "Did you truly?"

"Truly," she whispered. Then, more playfully: "It was much better than Shakespeare. I never liked him anyway, couldn't understand a word. But you…I understood everything you wrote. Well, almost everything. I have to admit I got a little lost on the word effulgent." She paused and when it became clear that he would not volunteer the information, asked, "What does effulgent mean?"

His lips twitched as if in an effort not to smile, but he didn't open his eyes. "It means…shining…luminous. Brilliant."

She tilted her head to one side, thinking about it.

"So…my beauty is luminous?"

"Exquisitely so."

She hooked her chin over his shoulder and tilted her head to the side so she could glance up at his face. His eyes were open now, watching closely for her reaction to the compliment. And she might have said something flowery in return, but that wasn't her way. As usual, she blurted out the foremost thing on her mind—which incidentally was also the least romantic.

"That Cecily cow…_she_ wasn't effulgent. Was she?"

He laughed, seemingly pleased by the question.

"Not in the least," he assured her.

"Only me?"

"Only you," he promised. And it seemed to Buffy that those two words were heavy with another meaning as well. He looked as if, with a little coaxing, he might be willing to say more. But Buffy didn't trouble herself to coax. She had the soft hitch in his breath, the tremble of his bottom lip. She had the gentle clutching of his index finger around her own. She didn't need to coax, didn't need to hear him say it again. Not that night. She knew.

* * *

* * *

Their fingers were still entwined when they entered the house some ten minutes later. It was quiet and empty inside. And very dark. The gaslights and the fires were out, the servants who usually attended to them long in their beds. Only James had stayed awake to greet the two partygoers and William had sent James away with the distinct understanding that he was to _stay_ away. Anne had planned to wait up for them so she could hear about the ball but evidently, this had been too tiring for her. It was well after midnight and the door to her room was shut tight, no light spilling from underneath it.

They crept down those dark corridors together and it was so utterly silent that it seemed to Buffy that they must be the only two creatures left on earth. Or at least the only two creatures on earth that really mattered. And there was such a feeling of _oneness_ with him. The feeling that she knew exactly what was going on inside his head, exactly what he wanted. It was a feeling she had never shared with anyone else: not with Angel, who had so often been a baffling mystery to her. Certainly not with Riley, whose secret thoughts she had never even bothered to try to uncover.

When they reached the top of the stairs and William began to withdraw to his own rooms, she reached out a hand to stop him.

"Don't go."

He looked so torn, a lifetime of training struggling against his own latent desires. He took a step forward and for a moment, Buffy watched fascinated as his hand crept toward her as if to touch her lips or her cheek. She held her breath and waited but at the last second, he jerked back. He flushed guiltily and looked away.

"I—it—it is so late—" he began.

"I know it is. Are you tired?"

"No, I'm not." His voice was a raspy whisper.

"Then stay with me."

She sidled nearer to him intrigued to find that although he seemed to have placed a taboo on touching her he seemed so have no such reserves on _her_ touching _him._ At any rate, he did not object to her approach and when she rested her head against his shoulder, he sighed as if that one small gesture had opened the door to paradise.

Still, there was the issue of respectability to consider.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to remain with you, my love. However—however we must consider the consequences to your reputation—"

"I thought we didn't care about reputations anymore."

Buffy nestled her face into the side of his neck. Although his skin was hot, he was still shivering from that cold horseback ride home. She reached around his shoulders, clasping her hands together at his back in an attempt to warm him. He tensed in her embrace, yet Buffy knew that he was not averse to it. She held him loosely and waited.

"And if I were to stay with you," he whispered hoarsely, "what would we do with ourselves at so late an hour?"

The guileless way he asked made her smile. However, she did not make use of that obvious double entendre because she knew it would embarrass him. Moreover, she understood that he was innocent and that he thought she was. And she liked that about him. He never even questioned her virtue.

"You could play the piano for me," she said, instead.

For a moment he was so silent she thought he hadn't heard her. She listened to the sound of his breathing, felt the ragged rise and fall of his chest against her own. She wondered if she should ask again. Then she felt it—the soft, soft tickling of his nose brushing the top of her head, taking in the scent of her hair. The whispered heat of his breath against her skin as he said:

"And what would I play?"

She pulled back from him a little, just enough so that she could look up into his face. His eyes were hungry, almost pleading, and his mouth slack. She could feel the rhythmic thumping of his heart against her breast.

"You could play—whatever you want," she answered. His nearness, the look in his eyes, made her feel giddy and strange. As though she couldn't breathe. She gripped handfuls of his coat and swallowed hard, her voice shaking just a little as she whispered, "It isn't the music that matters to me…it's the musician."

He inclined his head just slightly and his mouth was so close…so close that she could feel his breath pass over her lips as he murmured, "Oh, my sweetheart—my sweet—"

His mouth slanted across hers and there was no awkwardness in the trembling, brief kiss which followed. There was no shyness either. Nothing except softness and heat and the dizzy, breathless sensation it left her with. He tasted salty, like tears and something else. Something delicious that belonged only to him. And she wanted to bear down on him, run her tongue over him until his teeth parted and he let her inside. Let her unleash him from that terrible restraint which he had placed on himself. She might have done it, but for a soft, shrill call that issued from down the hallway.

"William!" It was Anne's voice.

The sound of it startled them both. William pulled away from her so quickly he almost tripped over his own feet and fell against the wall. It might have been funny under different circumstances. As it was, Buffy had to bite her lip and remind herself that profane words were definitely among the Victorian unmentionables. And this was really too bad because her frustration was reaching a level which only a few muttered curses could give vent to.

William turned his head in the direction of the call. "Mother," he whispered. At first to himself then to her: "My—my mother—"

He sounded dazed, almost as annoyed as she felt. That pleased her. Yet even despite this, he would not ignore his duty. She knew she would have been disappointed in him if he had.

"It's all right," she said. A little bit reluctantly because, after all, she would have liked to finish that kiss. But when he hesitated she squeezed his arm and encouraged, "Go on. It's all right. Go check on her."

He started away. Paused. Glanced back at her over his shoulder.

"Good night, Elizabeth."

She smiled. "Good night, William."

He hesitated, obviously still not entirely certain that he was doing the right thing. "Tomorrow…" he began.

His voice trailed away but Buffy nodded anyway. "Tomorrow," she told him.

He nodded and turned then, continuing on his way down the hall. And Buffy stared at his retreating back, leaning against the wall to steady herself as she considered the implications of what had just been said.

"Tomorrow," she whispered, and smiled to herself.

* * *

* * *

The library clock was just chiming one o'clock when William left Buffy in that shadowy corridor, an hour long past his mother's customary bedtime. It was for this reason that a tiny flutter of fear passed over him when he heard her call. Most likely, she was simply eager to hear an account of the evening's festivities. Yet suppose—

He tapped once on the heavy wooden door then pushed it open without waiting for a reply.

The room was warm, dimly lit by a fire whose coals were just beginning to burn out. His mother's shape was very small in the huge curtained bedstead, her thin body barely making a rise in the bedcovers. Yet she turned quickly enough at the sound of his footsteps. When she leaned up on her elbow, he could see that her eyes were animated and not at all sleepy. Not ill, then.

"Sweetheart." She held her hand out and he took it gently. "I heard your step in the hall. Was it a nice night?"

"Rather," he said briefly. Dreamily. She seemed puzzled by this and as a way to deflect more questions he added, "You were right, Mother. Miss Summers did need a bit of recreation in London society. She needed to experience—"

He paused.

"Well?" Anne prompted after a moment's silence. "Did she enjoy herself?"

"Yes, she did very much." And he shifted guiltily, knowing that his answer, while truthful enough, did not tell the whole story. He knew, as well, that the squirming pleasantness in his vitals at the memory Elizabeth's touch was most wrong. Ungentlemanly. She was an innocent young girl. So young and unaccustomed to the rules of London's polite society. She did not know it was improper to touch him and it was wrong of him to take advantage of it.

And yet—

He gave himself a shake. It was not something one should think about, particularly when one's mother was trying to ask him a question. He bit the inside of his cheek firmly and directed his attention, once again, to Anne.

"Pardon me?"

"I was only asking if they took to her at the ball. Did she get on well?"

"Certainly," he lied stoutly. "Did you think she wouldn't?"

"I had my concerns, I will admit," Anne replied good-naturedly. "You must concede, dear, that for all her charms and talents Miss Summers _is_ a rather odd sort of girl. Americans always are. I feared that perhaps London would not understand her as we do. It is gratifying to know that they did."

"Of course they did. Everyone was mad for her. Why, she was the talk of the evening."

Anne beamed. "Is that right?"

He remembered those lewd comments he had overheard about her—it was not only Charles Archer or Cecily that made such remarks—and a quick, hot anger flared in his chest because London _didn't _understand her. Yet the flash of temper was gone almost as quickly as it arrived, extinguished by the memory of what happened later. The soft way she spoke to him to soothe his embarrassment and his hurt; the caress of her lips against his neck. It was shameful even to think about such things, of course. That kiss he had given her was most improper. Actually, almost indecent. After all, they were not intended. He should not think of it. Yet how could he think of anything else? How could he recollect such a moment without feeling pleasure…as well as a certain masculine pride?

He smiled to himself.

"Indeed it is right," he told his mother. "She was the talk of the evening. They—they couldn't take their eyes off of her."

His mother looked at him curiously. Pleased, but with a certain air of sadness as well. The expression of loss and gain intermingled. "And what of yourself?" she asked gently.

"I could not take my eyes off her either," he replied. Which was, of course, not what she was asking. He realized this a second too late and hastily stood up to cover his embarrassment. "It—it is getting quite late. I fear for your health if you don't rest; we can talk about this on the morrow."

He started to retreat but his mother placed a hand on his arm to stop him. Her eyes were kind, but he dreaded the question that would inevitably come next.

"Have you feelings for Miss Summers, William?" she asked.

He glanced into the fire, his face working nervously. "I—I—feel quite warmly toward her, yes. Surely that cannot come as a surprise?"

"No, not as such." She paused. "And does she return your affections?"

"She—she has granted me the very great honor of allowing me to pay court to her, but I would not presume to say—Perhaps—with time—" He paused.

He didn't know why was being so evasive about the subject. Surely, he should be proud that Miss Summers returned his affections. He _was_ proud. But the memory of her touch was still strong upon him and he felt feverish and strange. Unable to talk about something that meant so much to him. Everything, point in fact.

"I am hopeful," he said finally, realizing even as he said it that this was an understatement of mammoth proportions. As if to emphasize the point he added, even more softly, "I have hope."

* * *

* * *

The following morning there was a rose lying on the floor outside Buffy's door, a rich red flower no doubt taken from the hothouse to the rear of the property. The petals curved inward, not yet blossomed, and the stem had no thorns. A small piece of folded stationary lay underneath it, her name inscribed on the front in a familiar hand. Buffy picked up the note and opened it.

Inside, there was a single sentence:

_Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away._

* * *


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Part Two**

* * *

_It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go..._

Song of Solomon 3:4

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

How quiet the house was that morning after the ball. How utterly still. Buffy navigated the dimly lit corridors with a sense of unease that grew with each step she took. Why weren't the lamps lit? She paused at the top of the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the banister. From below, there was only that odd silence: none of the usual clatter of breakfast preparations and squabbling of servants. In fact, other than Livvy she had not even seen any of the servants. And even Livvy had acted oddly. She had not spoken a word while she helped Buffy to dress and she had disappeared the moment the task was completed. Now she, as well as the rest of the staff, was nowhere to be found. A small shiver of fear skated down her spine but Buffy quickly shook it off. After all, this was not the Hellmouth; there was no reason to read anything into the quiet. It was Sunday. Maybe they were all just being pious.

She lifted the hem of her skirts and started down the staircase, but before she could clear even the first step, someone suddenly seized her from behind.

_Vampire! _Her mind screamed and she instinctively drew her arm back to elbow it in the gut. But there was something familiar about the long-fingered hand that was closed around her upper arm and she hesitated, allowing her captor enough time to draw her into the small recessed alcove off the landing. He pulled her around gently that she might face him.

"Did I startle you?" William asked. His forehead was creased with worry.

"Only just a little," Buffy reassured him. She laughed a little at her own paranoia and added, "Actually, I think maybe it was the quiet that got to me…my imagination was coming up with all kinds of reasons why the servants weren't making their usual ruckus. Usually it sounds like a convention of banshees in the morning. Why are they so quiet?"

"I ordered them to be so," he answered candidly. "I—I thought perhaps after the late night you would like to rest. I told them to be quiet and not to disturb you…that a formal breakfast would not be required." He looked suddenly anxious. "I hope I did right. They saw to Mother, but for us—" He hesitated.

Buffy cocked her head at him curiously. He looked as if he had not slept well, his eyes red-rimmed and etched with lines. Yet despite this, there was an air of nervous energy about him, as if he was bubbling with some barely contained sense of excitement. "What about us?" she asked gently.

His voice dropped low and husky. "Come away with me." He was still holding onto her arm, but it was with the lightest of touches and when he spoke, his words were like that too. Not a demand or a request, just a statement. A given. And so gently persuasive that even had Buffy been inclined to refuse she didn't think she would have been able to.

"I got your note," she told him. She stroked a finger down his closely-shaven cheek and asked, "Where are we going?"

A pleased light came into his eyes at the question although he did fidget slightly, distracted by the caress. "We will go anywhere you wish to go," he replied. "All you need do is tell me your desire and I shall make it happen."

For a moment, all kinds of interesting possibilities fluttered across Buffy's consciousness. Then she gave herself a mental smack—_No, pervert! That isn't what he meant!_—and tried to turn her thoughts to more chaste modes of entertainment. The problem was it was such a broad ranging question and she didn't know London well enough yet to know what her options were.

As if reading her mind William suddenly began offering all kinds of suggestions. Would she like to see a concert or a play? Would she like a tour of London by carriage? Would she like to take in the museums, the zoo, or the shops? There were games rooms, ballrooms, stables where she might learn to ride. There were—

She reached up with her free hand to touch his mouth and ostensibly the gesture was to quiet his stammering, although she continued to trace the contours of his lips with her fingertips long after he had lapsed into a confused silence. "Anything I want?" she asked him. Because there was one thing and if it wasn't exactly proper it wasn't perverted either.

"Anything," William repeated, mouthing the word almost silently against the tips of her fingers. He made her smile with his earnestness, the shy quiver in his voice. She wanted to see his eyes, but his spectacles were like a mirror reflecting the dim light. Impulsively, she reached up and pulled them off his face, tucking them into the pocket of his jacket. He looked naked without them. Vulnerable. She leaned up and kissed him on the very corner of his mouth.

"I want to be alone with you," she said.

* * *

* * *

William had informed Matthew earlier that morning that his services would be needed, and that it was an important occasion. What the special occasion was, he did not say, although the coachman thought he could guess easily enough. And it was with a mixture of amusement and great fondness that he told his master that, yes, he would be ready by the allotted time and that everything would be perfect. He spent the better part of an hour that morning dressing. He oiled his boots and brushed his best driving suit, even polished the little brass buttons on the front of the coat. He was to be out front of the house at half past nine and no one told him any differently, so at nine o'clock on the button he stepped out from his little apartment beside the stable, ready to prepare the horses for their journey. And there he met with something of a surprise.

William was hitching up the horses in the yard.

Matthew's first thought was that perhaps he was running late and this was his employer's way of expression displeasure. However, a quick glance at his pocket watch told him he was not late and on further scrutiny, he realized that William was not even looking at him as he approached. In fact, he seemed to be making a pointed effort not to look at him. Naturally, he could not help being a little puzzled by all this, but the surprised questioning that followed was met with none too good a temper.

"I shall be driving myself this morning," said William shortly. "Your services are not needed."

Matthew's eyes followed the movements of his master's hands buckling up the traces. In the seven years he had been under their employment, he had never known William to drive himself anywhere. Ride, yes, but not drive. Presumably he knew how (most gentlemen did) but Matthew fancied that, being a bit out of practice, he might not be capable of handling the spirited horses.

"Sir, if you don't mind, may I make mention—"

"I do mind," William replied with uncommon rudeness. "And I am busy, so I ask that you apply yourself to your work and leave me now."

Buffy, standing some distance away in the stable yard, heard the tail end of this discussion and she smiled, knowing that his irritability was an indication of how badly he did want this. To be alone with her.

"Temper, temper," she murmured, drawing up behind him a moment after Matthew disappeared. "You'll get the reputation as a tyrant if you aren't careful."

William smiled as he bent over the harness leather. "After all…one must be firm with one's servants. Otherwise you will lose their respect."

"You were never firm with me," she pointed out, amused by the idea of William being firm with anyone. He was very soft hearted and all of the servants knew this and took advantage of it.

"You were never a servant," he answered.

"What was I?"

"A blessing."

Buffy was so flattered by this that for a moment she didn't know how to respond. Finally, she decided to be flippant.

"You'd better watch out, Mr. Hartley, you're going to spoil me with all the sweet talk."

"I want to," William said. He gave the harness a couple of experimental tugs to be sure everything was adequately fastened and his eyes never left the horse's back as he added, "I love you."

There seemed to be an expectant pause then. Or perhaps it was just Buffy, trying hard to work up the courage to find some answer for him. She failed miserably, at any rate, and after a small silence that she perceived as disappointment William carried on as if nothing had happened. In fact, when he turned to face her his expression was studiedly cheerful.

He doffed his hat and bowed deeply, as if in the presence of someone profoundly superior to himself. "Step right up, my lady." He made a grand, sweeping gesture towards the coach. "Just two bits will get you anywhere in London"

He was aping the Cockney accent of most hackney drivers, and at first Buffy was startled; he sounded almost exactly like Spike. Then she caught on to the joke and laughed. She pulled out two copper coins and handed them to him.

"Here you are, driver. And be sure you keep those nags at a fair pace; I'm not paying to arrive late."

"And these the fastest horses in all London town!" he cried in mock offense. He flung open the carriage door and offered her his hand. "Don't you worry," he added as she settled herself into the seat. "I'll see it you get there safely, and in good time."

"Now if only I knew where I was going we'd be all set," laughed Buffy.

William smiled.

"That," he said, "is a surprise."

* * *

* * *

That morning he showed her London.

Not the real London, not the hateful part he despised, but that other part—that beautiful, fairy-tale part of it that wealthy men could unlock and briefly escape into. They went first for brunch in the Palace Hotel and the place was like an aesthetic dream: glossy woods and slick marble, glittering chandeliers and gleaming silver; brightly colored fresh fruits arranged like still life of china platters. It was altogether perfect, like a painting or an old movie, and she was the centerpiece. The star. The waiters all wore crisp, bright livery, and they spoke French. The menus were in French too, and their server waited patiently as William quietly translated each item for her.

"_Pardonnez ma hardiesse,"_ he murmured over her head. "_Votre épouse est très belle."_

"_Est elle pas?" _William responded proudly, not bothering to correct the misconception. He looked at Buffy and reiterated, "_Mon épouse est exquise."_

"What are you saying about me?" Buffy asked, laughing, as she looked up from her menu to find both William and the waiter staring at her. The former grinned at her in a most mysterious manner, but all he would say was:

"Only that you are very beautiful to look at, my treasure."

That was a lovely breakfast.

What amazed her most was not his joviality—after all, he had claimed his love what man would not be deliriously happy about that? But there was his utter lack of concern over what might be said of their rendezvous, which was odd after all those admonishments he had given her about preserving reputations. They were breaking all the rules, yet he was not ashamed of it; he was not trying to hide it. In fact, he seemed almost to flaunt her in front of that nameless, faceless upper class which filled the restaurant. His love. He was proud of her. He thought they all must be jealous.

After the meal (of which she ate far too much for a lady), William took her to an early afternoon matinee concert at St. James's Hall. That venue (not to be confused with St. James's Theatre) was large and also very elegant, although not more than half full at this time of day. They arrived early and waiters served orange juice and champagne in the lobby, while all the fashionably dressed men and women milled about talking to each other. A few greeted William, though only briefly. Most said nothing at all. One group of women Buffy recognized from Cecily Underwood's regime was decidedly cold and they cut him outright when he nodded a greeting, but William did not seem bothered by this. Rather, he hardly seemed to notice it. He had her on his arm and he was proud of it, the rest of the world be damned.

Although he had bought their tickets at almost the last minute, William had paid a good deal of money and secured seats right up in the balcony, overlooking the orchestra. It had a separate entrance to it and no one else was there, so they had a plenty of privacy. He left her once she was seated, was gone only a moment, and returned in time for the overture with something of a self-satisfied look on his face. He gave no explanation of where he had been and Buffy did not ask. She had by now grown accustomed to his disappearing-reappearing act, as one of his many eccentricities and so was not bothered by it. Besides this, he brought her a white gardenia he had bought off a vendor in the lobby, and he said all manner of agreeable things about her while he pinned it on. So she was not much in the way to be disturbed by a few minutes' absence.

"Wow, these guys aren't half bad," she whispered a few minutes into the concert—rather rudely, since the audience was supposed to stay quiet during the performance. Another man might have frowned ominously to discourage further disturbance, but not William. He encouraged all her behaviors, good, bad and otherwise, and seemed to take delight in all she did. At any rate, he spent much more time watching her during the concert than paying attention to what was going on below them.

Buffy, however, was rapt. She had never been one for classical music at home, but this was a completely different experience. Heretofore she had heard Mozart and Beethoven only through the tinny speakers of a stereo system or in the off-tune renditions of the high school marching band, which made even the most beautiful masterpiece seem boring or even (in the case of the marching band, at least) downright unpleasant. This music however was played by an orchestra that knew what it was doing, and in their skilled hands, the compositions were powerful and beautiful the way they were meant to be. At times throughout the show, a female singer accompanied the music and her voice was almost like an instrument in itself. Buffy was completely spellbound.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" William asked her at Intermission. Far below them, everyone else began rising from their seats and wandering about. A low rumble of voices filled the room and he had to lean a little inward to hear her answer.

"I love it. This was a wonderful idea," she told him, adding a moment later, "Thank you so much."

He shrugged off the thanks with an awkward but still somehow affecting silence. She wanted to put her hand on his arm or to lace her fingers through his, but she was afraid of making him uncomfortable. Already he was breaking so many rules for her; she couldn't very well ask him for more. Not now. So she kept her hands folded demurely in her lap and listened attentively for the music to be begin again. Yet she would not realize what lengths he had gone to in order to impress her until the very end of the concert.

The last song in the program was comprised mainly of string instruments, although there was one young woman playing a piano that was placed almost in the middle of the stage. She was also the vocalist of the group and she had beautiful soprano voice. It complemented the instruments so perfectly it made Buffy's skin tingle as she sang:

_Leise flehen meine Lieder  
durch die Nacht zu dir  
in den stillen Hain hernieder,  
Liebchen, komm zu mir _

And it was just a second after this that Buffy sat bolt upright in her chair in sudden realization. "Hey! Isn't that—" She turned to William but something in his face made her pause. It was a shy, satisfied sort of expression, as if he was nervous and pleased and expectant all the same time. Still, he brushed it off as if it were nothing.

"_Ständchen_." He said it in a whisper.

"You asked her to sing it?"

"Yes—well—not the lady herself. Rather, the gentleman in charge of the production. It was not difficult; the musicians were already familiar with the piece. And I thought—I hoped—perhaps you might enjoy it. That night I played for you, you seemed quite taken with it."

He paused, and his gaze slid away from hers shyly.

"I hope you aren't upset with me."

"Upset with you!" She kept her voice low so as not to attract too much attention from the rest of the audience. "William! Why on earth would I be upset with you?"

He shrugged helplessly, unable to put his concern into words. After a moment of awkward silence, he asked, "So then…it pleases you?"

"Of course it does!"—this time she did reach for his hand, forgetting, for the moment at least, her concerns about embarrassing him. However, he seemed more pleased than embarrassed by the gesture. When she squeezed his fingers, he looked over at her and smiled.

"But I think it's prettier when you play it." And she kissed him on the cheek.

* * *

* * *

After the concert ended, there was the usual swarming to the exits. When they first arrived at the Hall attendants had taken their outer garments and handed them, in exchange, small pink cloakroom tickets. Now they had to wait in the crowd to reclaim William's coat and Buffy's cloak and, by virtue of the fact they had been seated in the balcony farthest from the entrance hall, they were practically at the back of the line.

William looked at the congested lobby doubtfully. "I could see you to the coach," he suggested to Buffy, "and you might wait there while I return for our garments."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" she asked archly, raising her eyebrows. He looked surprised.

"Of course I am not, my love."

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Then I think I'd rather stay here with you, if that's okay."

They waited in comfortable silence in the slow-moving crowd. And Buffy honestly had no idea that anyone was paying attention to them until suddenly a deep and painfully familiar voice broke out above the din:

"Well, as I live and breath," it said.

Buffy's head whipped around. Charles Archer was standing some distance away from them, his mustached mouth twisted into an unpleasant smirk. She could not help but notice the red weal that marred his left cheekbone. Her handiwork, of course.

The blood drained out of her own face as she looked at him, and there was a small, sick knot in her stomach. It had never occurred to her they might run into him or that he would speak to them if they did. Now, looking at his self-satisfied sneer, she railed at her own stupidity. Of course, he would confront them if they met. And of course, they would meet. After all, weren't several of Cecily's other friends here as well? This was probably one of the bigger events happening around town this afternoon; all the society idiots would be here.

She put a light pressure to William's sleeve, hoping to pull him forward and out of the range of fire. But of course he had no idea of the specifics of her confrontation with Archer and he could not foresee what lay ahead. He managed a tight, polite smile at the man who had caused him such embarrassment only the night before. "Charles," he said briefly.

"William," answered Archer. His eyes swept over Buffy in a most disagreeable, ungentlemanly way as he added, "Miss Summers."

She said nothing.

After a moment's silence William cleared his throat uneasily. "Well—" He started to draw Buffy forward with the rest of the queue, but again Archer's voice stopped them.

"I must say I am surprised at you, old boy."

William paused, throwing a puzzled frown over his shoulder. "I beg your pardon?"

"You surprise me by bringing Miss Summers to such an affair, of course."

Buffy gnashed his teeth; she could already divine where this conversation was heading. The bastard, she could kill him. Her hands curled into fists at her side and she did take a step forward. But William moved slightly in front of her to block her path. He did so not as if he was trying to prevent her from embarrassing him, but more as a protective gesture, as though he wanted to shield her from some unpleasantness.

"And why would such a thing surprise you?" he asked. There was a note of suspicion in his voice and something harder that was not suspicion.

Archer drew a little closer. "Well, you always struck me as such a proper one. Never in my born days would I suspect you to take a woman. Certainly I would not have suspected you to take one beneath your own position…and then shepherd her about society as if she were one of us."

William took a step forward, his face coloring with embarrassment and anger. "I cannot say I appreciate your implication, Charles."

"Implication!" Archer feigned surprise, though there was obvious venom in his voice as he continued, low: "My dear William, I imply nothing! No. I am telling you quite plainly that it is downright offensive to me that you should parade your concubine out amongst decent ladies…and behave most indecorously during a public concert, too. If you have no care for your own reputation then that is your business. But to expose our innocent young society maids to such licentious—"

"Enough!" snapped William angrily. "I will not hear another word! If you have complaint against me then that is your business. But to bring Miss Summers into the conversation—to slight her and make question of her integrity—is too much!"

"Integrity!" Archer laughed and shook his head ever so slightly. "Ah, yes. I suppose you still hold to the illusion that this is a lady of substance. A woman of good family fallen on hard times? Yet even a blind idiot could tell you, William, that what you have here is nothing more than a piece of filthy gutter trash. God only knows how many she's consorted with before she found an easy target in you."

He leaned in slightly to William and his voice dropped to a poisonous whisper as he added, "She's with you for your money, you stupid fellow, and nothing more. So you take that home to bed with you, and your whore as well. And then you tell me where the integrity lies."

He started to turn away then, trailing his sarcastic laugh behind him like a banner. Yet he had not taken more than a single step when William suddenly lunged forward. He grabbed Archer by the lapels of his expensive wool jacket and slammed him up against the wall. Hard.

"QUIET!" he snarled. And for that moment, he looked and sounded so much like Spike that Buffy felt a shiver of shock. She made a grab for his sleeve, hoping to avoid the ugliness she knew was coming, but he shook her off.

There was an apprehensive look to Archer's eye now, though he would not own it. He reached to throw off William's hands, but the other man's grip was too strong. He spat: "What will you do, Hartley? Strike me? I should not be surprised. One can certainly be judged by the company he keeps and I daresay that wanton creature you consort with is rubbing off on you!"

CRACK

William's fist connected with the bridge of Archer's nose with such violence that even Buffy winced. Blood spurted from both nostrils as Archer cried out in obvious pain and shock. He flailed almost blindly at his assailant, but his fists struck nothing more than empty air. William slammed him into the wall again and for a moment held him there as if he might throttle him.

"Let that be a lesson to you!" he said, breathing heavily. "Not to talk badly of a lady in my presence!" He spun around and marched off to reclaim his place in line. Unsurprisingly, Archer did not follow.

Buffy hurried after him. All around them people were staring and talking, but she barely noticed them. She grabbed hold of William's jacket so that he pulled up abruptly and looked at her.

"I can't believe you did that!" Her eyes were wide with shock.

William stared down at his cracked and bleeding knuckles then. "I don't care!" he breathed, nostrils still distended with anger. "He deserved it! To even suggest that you would—that you—" He broke off, blushing furiously.

She touched his arm. "I really appreciate your defending me. But William, doing that in front of so many people…won't they think…"

"I don't care what they think," he muttered. They were next in line and he shoved their claim tickets at the cloakroom attendant wordlessly. "I don't care for any of them." He shrugged into his overcoat quickly so that he could assist Buffy in putting on her cloak. "Let us leave this place; these people are not fit to associate with."

They made their way through the mob with William's arm linked possessively through hers. There was something overtly hostile and very Spike-ish in his manner as he stared down the crowd ahead, as if daring anyone to speak to them. None of them did. Although there were a lot of stares and whispers as they passed, no one risked a comment to either of them. Still, it was not until they reached the windy sidewalk in front of the building that William seemed able to relax, anger seeping slowly out of him. In just a moment, his voice sounded almost normal.

"I am so terribly sorry you had to witness that scene, Miss Elizabeth."

"Just Elizabeth," she reminded him. "And don't be sorry, it wasn't your fault." She laughed, then. "Actually, this makes two of us that let Archer have what he deserved. He was saying the same sorts of things last night and I gave him a good smack. Not hard enough apparently, but—"

William's jaw clenched. "How _dare_ he even suggest—? I ought to have killed him! I should return to the Hall and—and—"

"Stop," Buffy whispered, but soothingly. "Stop..." She reached up to gently stroke the tension lines between his eyes, rubbing them with her thumbs until he sighed softly and they smoothed away.

"I wanted this to be a perfect day for you."

"It has been," she insisted. "Being with you made it perfect, Archer didn't change that."

"Elizabeth, I assure you I never said anything to indicate—I never once insinuated to anyone that you and I—that you were anything less than the proper lady that you are."

"I know that. Do you think I don't know that?"

He flushed. "Yet…I was unforgivably rude," he whispered.

Buffy was startled.

"What? When—?"

He looked down, words coming slowly and with difficulty. "Last night. To be so forward as to—to kiss you when we aren't even intended. I was not a gentleman. No wonder then that people should think—"

"Don't say that. There was nothing rude or ungentlemanly about it. It was wonderful and tender and—and beautiful—"

"_You_ are beautiful," he interrupted in a tight sort of serious voice that for some unaccountable reason made her want to cry. Mindless of the people around them, she stood on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his temple. His lashes covered his eyes and she could feel the jump of his pulse beneath his skin. Then somehow—without her even having to maneuver it at all—his arms were around her shoulders, pulling her against the warm wall of his chest.

He buried his face in her upswept hair. "Oh, my dear girl. My sweetheart, I love you so."

He said it breathlessly, shyly, and without any expectation of a response. But she responded anyway, whispering soundlessly into his shoulder what it would take her several long weeks to tell him to his face:

"I love you, too."

* * *


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Chapter Seventeen**

She never knew that life could be like this. Effortless. She was so used to struggling, fighting to stay afloat. Fighting to stay alive. But here, now, was a life completely without complications or obligations. If before she had been fighting the current then now she was floating upon it, letting the warm drifting carry her where it would. Overnight her status in the household changed; all pretense of her being a hired hand were put aside. Even the slight burden of Anne's care would have been taken from her had she allowed it. But those small tasks that had become part of her daily routine were no trouble at all and she would have missed them. Yet now she could perform them out of love for Anne and not any sense of duty. There were no duties anymore. There was nothing but safety and pleasure—and just enough work to do to keep her from being bored. And William—

And William.

What was there to say about William except that she loved him? She did not know—would never fully know—what lengths he had gone to and all that he had given up in order to possess her. The doors of London's elite had closed forever to him and even the middle class, those beneath him that should have been struggling for his approval, now treated him with barely contained scorn. His business suffered. His finances secure though they were, suffered. To a certain extent, even his home life suffered, for Anne was disapproving of his escorting Buffy about town without a chaperone. Then there were locked doors in her house, when there had never been before. Doors locked against her, whispered conversations that did not include her. She, who had once been the center of her son's narrow world, now she was a sidepiece, still loved, but a mere afterthought to the overwhelming, slavish devotion he felt for Elizabeth Summers. Anne was not angry about all this, only rather hurt, and because William loved his mother well, it hurt him to see it. Yet he worshiped Miss Summers and nothing, not even the knowledge of his adored mother's displeasure, could turn him from her.

Buffy was only peripherally aware of all this. Nothing William ever said or did would indicate their relationship was causing him problems and all she knew was what she picked up by herself. And since she picked up very little, the even tenor of her days was not disrupted by the small conflicts occurring around her. She was happy for the first time in months and the only thing that disturbed her tranquility was the thought that perhaps Willow might bring her home. Surely, she and Tara must still be trying. Still, Buffy comforted herself with the thought that if success had not come in six weeks then surely it would not come at all. Then again, perhaps she had so changed time that there was no longer anyone to bring her home. Perhaps given that there was no Spike to kill two Slayers then she no longer was one. Maybe someone else had taken that particular torch from her…meaning she never went to Sunnydale anyway.

Which was a nice theory except she still had her very Slayer-like physical strength and stamina.

Still in all actuality, she really thought of it very little. Only very late at night, when she was alone and could not sleep, did the thought gnaw at her. Otherwise, she pushed it to the very back of her mind and left it there. There were too many other things on her mind right now to dwell on something so unpleasant.

She loved him.

She loved him. She loved him. She loved him.

God, it was overwhelming. Like her heart was too big, like she couldn't breathe. For so long she had worried that she was not capable of loving a normal man, of having a normal relationship. She'd tried so hard with Riley and yet once his stint with the Initiative had ended—once he had become "average"—the thrill was gone. She had been going through the motions and both of them knew it. And she didn't want to need a little monster in her man, but she'd started to wonder. Until this. Yet William never struck her as average, even if he was not imbued with overwhelming physical strength. He was gentle and honest; he was so incredibly sweet and innocent. She'd never met anyone remotely like him before and all those men from her past—even Angel—were shadows, dim and unimportant, in the light of her love for him.

She watched him from across the library while he bent over his desk, pen scratching rapidly against a sheet of stationary. There was an open book beside him; he wasn't writing poetry. He was "totting up." Going over the month's accounts in the big leather-bound ledger. It was important work and he should not be disturbed. She was supposed to be reading and there was a battered copy of _Pride and Prejudice _in her lap, but it lay unopened and ignored. What she was really doing was waiting for his attention to fall to her.

It did not take long. The pen scratched more and more slowly until finally, it stopped, and he let it fall. A moment later, he reached out and she was up and out of her chair in an instant crossing the room to settle herself into his arms. He wouldn't permit her on his lap (ungentlemanly), but he drew her onto his knee and wrapped both arms around her waist. She could feel the tautness of his muscles beneath the wool of his coat; she could feel his heat and smell the sweet scent of his skin. And she wanted him. Of course she did. She loved him and she wanted him. It was completely normal.

For her.

For him it was something different. She wasn't sure what because it was something that was not discussed. Buffy knew this by now and knew there was no arguing with it. But in the not talking about it, her confusion grew. Because in her intercourse with William there had not been any—well, intercourse. It was a curious thing. She knew he wanted her; it was pretty darn obvious that she aroused him. Yet in each of his kisses (of which there had been very few), there was the air of self-control, of great restraint. And if she tried anything more, anything truly passionate the result was always the same. That same subtle lean-back, just enough space put between them to make further intimacies impossible. And not a word said about it.

She knew not to take it personally. God, considering the repressive environment he had grown up in it was a wonder he was even remotely normal. Still it did hurt a little. After all, rejection was rejection. And as she nestled her head against his broad shoulder, she toyed with the idea of—well, not seducing him, that would be a bit bald—but at least pushing them both beyond the borders of chaste, closed-mouth kissing. However, the idea seemed so tasteless. For one thing, she was not a natural seductress. Flirting was one thing, something she enjoyed and was good at doing, but the very idea of mincing around and playing the vixen made her feel silly. Anyway, she didn't want to cheapen it with planning or subterfuge. There had already been so much of that. She wanted this one thing to happen naturally between them. Honestly. As if by fate, almost by accident.

Perfect.

Buffy smiled a little at the thought. Then just as quickly, she frowned. The thought of subterfuge reminded her of just how much of it there was in their relationship. No matter how intense it was their love had been built on a foundation of lies. Dozens of them. He knew her and probably better than any other living person, in this time or the other. Yet he knew nothing of her life or her experiences. Only that her mother had died; he did not even know of what. She loved him; she didn't want to lie to him. Yet how could he possibly understand the circumstances that had brought her here? It seemed unfair even to make him try.

William took note of her somber expression and his own quickly became concerned. "Why do you look so solemn my treasure?"

"I dunno. Just thinking, I guess."

She picked up his hand and held it between both of her own. His was much bigger. It was soft and warm, stained with ink. She kissed the tip of each finger.

"When are you leaving?"

A suddenly grieved look came into his patient blue eyes at the question. "I…I have not yet decided."

"But soon?"

"Soon," he echoed. His voice sounded throaty and strange. A moment later, he bowed his face into her hair and sighed. "A fortnight without you. How shall I bear it?"

A fortnight. Her mind translated the time in weeks and her heart cramped. Yet he had to go. He had to check on things at the estate and already he had been gone almost two months. She wanted to go with him. She kept waiting for him to ask but he never did. It was not proper and anyway, someone had to stay and look after Anne, Buffy knew that. Still she could not pretend the idea filled her with any pleasure.

"Then don't go," she said now. Followed immediately by "Go. Don't listen to me; I know you have to. I'm not asking you to stay, really. I just—"

His hand stroked her hair, a caress almost paternal in its tenderness. "Yes?"

"I'll miss you."

But that wasn't what she really meant at all.

* * *

* * *

By the middle of the following week, he had still not set a date for his departure. The servants were spending great chunks of their days in preparations for the trip. Trunks were packed and sent on ahead, train schedules carefully scrutinized and placed before him for final approval. And endless epistles between the staff there and the staff here. The former's always containing the question: "What date is he coming?"

But he wouldn't say.

He was dragging his feet and the city workers, at least, knew why. They joked about it amongst themselves, but it was all good-natured. They liked their master and felt amused by this sudden devotion to a woman; he had always been so antisocial before. Yet none of them dared speak of it to William, not even in jest. Not James, who as first footman, was probably closest to his employer. Not even Matthew, who was usually so outspoken on all subjects whether they were his business or not. They were careful not to speak of Elizabeth Summers at all for he was so pathologically jealous of her even the barest hint of a relationship of any kind between her and another man would send him into a terrible temper. Even her on-again off-again friendship with Matthew was a carefully guarded secret between them, though she did not know it.

What Buffy did know was that during the latter part of January he seemed in very poor spirits indeed. Not that he owned it, of course. With Buffy, he was always affectionate and soft-spoken, conscientious of her feelings. At mealtimes with his mother he laughed, made jokes and plans about his impending journey. Yet behind the bright facade, there was something earnest and not at all happy, and Buffy knew that when he was alone where no one could see him his mood was quite different.

Something was bothering him, but she knew better than to ask what. As his confidence in her—in _them_—grew, he began to talk more easily, at times even effusively. Sometimes it was downright impossible to shut him up. Yet in spite of this she knew that the things which touched him most deeply, the things that hurt, he kept inside. This was not because he felt a need to hide things from her, but rather that he had not learned how to express his sorrow in any productive manner. So she didn't ask.

And it might have gone on just like this until he finally gathered the courage to test the tenuous hold he had on her and left for the estate. Except that it didn't. Because as so often happens in life and love something—call it Fate or Chance or the Gods—intervened. And in the span of a few brief hours on a rainy January night, everything between them changed.

* * *

* * *

It was Buffy's legs that began it. They were hairy. Not just stubble-from-a-few-days-past hairy but genuinely Yeti-type furred. She hadn't waxed them since she'd been here because there was no leg wax. There weren't even any razors, or at least not ones made for women. There were those "cutthroat" razors men used that resembled a folding knife from a barroom brawl and looked capable of taking off your calf muscle right along with the hair. Until now, she had avoided them like the plague figuring that if she tried to use one taking off her calf muscle would be the least of the damage she'd cause herself. But eventually necessity outweighed her general squeamishness and she went out and bought one from the local chemist. Likewise she purchased a bar of shaving soap and that evening when everyone was settled for the night she betook herself to the upstairs powder room with both packages tucked underneath her arm.

Anne and William's rooms had attached powder rooms, but Buffy had to use the big family one just off the upper landing. It was beautiful, with gold and white scrolled paper and a large, glossy wooden tub lined in pewter. Even a water closet, although it was so poorly designed no one dared use it anymore. There was a dumbwaiter cleverly concealed behind a painting and when she rang for water Livvy dutifully heated it on the kitchen range and sent it upstairs. When it arrived the big, earthenware container was hot to the touch and very heavy. It would have been impossible for the average lady to lift and normally she could have called a servant to do it for her. However, Buffy was not a normal lady and she did not want the interference of the servants just now anyway so she wrapped the container in a towel and lifted it easily. Once the water was in the tub, she could finally undress for her bath.

Shaving with a straight blade was no easy feat but eventually she accomplished it, albeit not without sacrificing a few drops of blood to the hygiene gods. Afterwards she bathed as usual, washed her hair, and toweled it as dry as it would come. Then she called for Livvy to help her dress because although she sorely despised the practice Anne advised her to wear her corset even to bed. She might loosen her stays, but she should not remove them. Otherwise, she might "lose her figure."

When this very Victorian concern was first brought to her attention, Buffy thought it was ludicrous; however as she stared at herself in the big French mirror while Livvy laced her up she suddenly thought perhaps Anne had a point. Much as she hated to admit it, the excellent meals and perfect rest that categorized her life here did have its effect, and she had gained weight. Apparently, her dress waists and corset lacings had not just shrunk in the wash after all.

Feeling rather appalled by this, Buffy waited until Livvy had gone then she took a minute to scrutinize herself carefully and it wasn't so bad as she originally thought. Her legs and waist were still slender at least. Her belly was flat though no longer hollowed. But there were noticeably fewer angles to her body and face. All those sharp lines of protruding bone had melted into gentle curves of soft flesh; her face was curved and her neck smoothly rounded. Even her breasts were a little fuller. She was by no means unfit or overweight, but where before she had looked like an athlete, even a predator, now she resembled only the pretty well cared for girl she had once been. The pretty, well cared for woman she now was. And she could see for the first time the softness, the sweetness William claimed he saw in her.

After a moment's deliberation, she realized liked the change, although she did wish it could have been achieved without tipping the scales. Still she primped a little before the glass, admiring that new, more feminine self. She had dressed only to her underclothing: corset cover, corset, shift, and pantalets because she had forgotten to bring her nightdress with her. Yet while she was technically in her underwear, still she felt more covered than she would have been in a modern party dress, not particularly naked at all. And maybe it was this feeling that made her venture boldly out into the hallway a few minutes later without calling Livvy to bring her a wrap. Anyway, with exception to some of the downstairs servants she figured most everyone was asleep. Who would see her anyway?

In the first regard, she was almost correct. Most everyone was asleep. But not all. And she realized this only after she had hit the point of no return clothing-wise.

The library door was ajar.

There was no light or sound spilling from the inside, but Buffy knew that door never was left open accidentally. It was William's place and private; the servants were always quite careful about closing the door behind them when they cleaned. This meant, of course, that William must be inside.

A Victorian lady would have passed quietly along to her own room without stopping, but Buffy was not a Victorian lady. She was a product of her generation just as surely as he was a product of his, and when she realized he was still awake at that late hour she did not walk demurely by but instead paused at the open door to look in on him.

The room was not completely dark, owing to the fact that the curtains were open and a not insignificant amount of moonlight was pouring in from the four big ceiling-to-floor windows at the back. Yet there was a blur to everything, a softness of shadow and silvery, dim light, that was rather appealing, and she smiled a little at the tableau before her.

William was sitting on one of the worn armchairs in front of a fire long gone to ashes. He was reading by the dim light of a single guttering candle, his shoulders slouched and tired beneath his clothes. One hand was quietly turning pages and the other was resting against his forehead, as if he had a headache. His suit jacket was a tidy bundle on the back of the chair, but his shirt and waistcoat—even his cravat—were as neat and crisp and tightly buttoned as if he had only just put them on. Naturally, since his back was to the door he did not see her standing there.

Buffy swallowed down a small lump that had formed in her throat. Her intention had been only to check on him and then return to her room. Yet there was something in the way he was sitting there in the dark—

Alone.

A surge of affection for him washed over her and without fully realizing what she was doing Buffy left the doorway and stepped into the library. Her knees shook as she crossed the room, but she did not stop until she was standing directly behind his chair, her breasts just grazing the back of it as she bent over him. He startled at her touch and the muscles of his shoulders tensed beneath his linen shirt as he twisted his upper body around so that he could look at her. Yet he did not relax when he saw her face. In fact, Buffy thought he looked even more anxious than before, though she could not imagine why. Perhaps he could read in her face those half-formed, sensual thoughts in her brain. Perhaps he was having them too.

She bent slightly at the waist and put her mouth very close to his ear so that he could hear her soft whisper. "It's very late. What are you doing awake and all alone?" Her mouth brushed against his earlobe and he shifted, not necessarily displeased but certainly uneasy with the touch.

"I…I could not sleep." His voice was so soft it was almost inaudible. She had to lean in even closer to hear him properly.

"Why could you not?"

Warm breath tickled the sensitive flesh of his ear and William wriggled slightly. Not exactly away but enough so that she took notice. He fixed his eyes steadily on the moonlit window and said, "I suppose I am too heavy with thought for sleep."

She rested her chin on his shoulder. "Are you thinking about me?"

"Always," he said seriously. "As a matter of fact, I was thinking just a few moments past how was it that I managed to live so long without you?"

How to answer that question? She didn't know how, except that he'd lived desperately lonely. It hurt her even to think about, because she could see what it had done to him, being alone so long. He had become comfortable with it. He had become accustomed to not being touched or touching anyone else. Now Buffy wished she could lay herself across him and kiss him, show him she loved him in the way she knew best. If he let her, she thought, she could break through the confines of his self-control to release the passionate man she knew was in there. Trapped.

She could let him go.

If he allowed her to.

Moved by an impulse she could not fully explain Buffy suddenly reached around William's neck to fiddle with his cravat.

"You're always so fastened up," she said playfully. "How've you lived so long so fastened up? Don't you ever let yourself relax?"

"Am I fastened up?" His voice was thick, as if the words had stuck in his throat.

"Very fastened up," she confirmed and with a quick and practiced pull, she loosened the knot of his cravat. Not a lot, just enough so that she could slide her hand underneath and unbutton his top two collar buttons. Only the top two. Only enough so that she could slip her fingers inside his shirt and touch his throat, feel the softness and the heat. The frantic hammering of his pulse against his flesh. William's response to the caress was as startled and immediate as if she'd just stuck a pin in him: he jumped.

"Elizabeth, you shouldn't—that is, _we_ should not—being alone as we are—"

"I want to unfasten you." She teased him with her voice, with her fingertips lightly tracing the line of his collarbone. She asked, "May I?"

William shifted and his head dropped against the back of the chair so that for a moment she caught a glimpse of the stunned look in his eyes. He did not answer her question, but she took the lack of further protest as encouragement and continued with her gentle, persistent caresses. She trailed soft, soft kisses down the cut-glass curve of his cheekbone. His skin smelled of sandalwood soap and wood smoke, ink and paper and a little nervous sweat. It was unbelievably soft where his jaw line met his neck and she paused there, nibbling gently above the starched linen collar of his shirt.

He gasped quietly and shivered when her tongue flicked out to taste his bare flesh. She felt his fingertips brushed against the side of her neck and Buffy knew he was aching to touch her. Yet a second later, he yanked his hand away as though she had scorched him.

His restraint impressed her, but she was intent of breaking him from it. He was so repressed. He wanted so badly to be freed. She moved around to the front of his chair.

For the first time William took note of what she was wearing—rather what she was _not_ wearing—and he blushed furiously. For just an instant, his eyes darted hungrily over her figure. Then just as quickly, they shifted away and he was left embarrassed in her presence, clearly ashamed to have looked at all. He started to rise.

Buffy pressed him gently back into his seat, her body following his descent so that in just a moment she sat on his lap, her legs gracefully folded on either side of him. He fidgeted beneath her, red faced and obviously suffering an agony of embarrassment. Yet he did not push her away.

"What're you—" he began. His voice was tense, strained. Like his body.

Buffy nuzzled his neck, kissed at the edges of his mouth. "Trust me," she whispered.

Whether he did or not was up for debate and for a moment, there was almost the shadow of a struggle between them. It was almost as if he were trying to remove himself from her hands and her mouth. Yet for all the moving he was doing, he did not manage to put any space between them. She was touching him without ceasing and he could not keep up his resistance to it. His hands gripped the arms of the chair and although he did not return any of those improper caresses, he was no longer fighting them either. He slumped beneath the stretch of her body, still and almost entirely silent save for the sound of his ragged breathing.

Again, she kissed him and this time parted her lips. Coaxing millimeter by millimeter until his mouth opened and she could slip her tongue inside. He gasped sharply at that first sensation, but he didn't pull away. She went slowly, tasting his lips and his tongue lightly, teasingly, until finally he began to respond. His kisses were clumsy and uncertain, arousing for their very innocence alone. He had no idea what he was doing and she loved him for it.

As the kissing continued, Buffy slowly became aware that the warm, soft surface of his lap had become suddenly hard and angled beneath her. She arched her body against it, rubbing not forcefully but insistently against the growing bulge with her hipbone. He squirmed a little beneath her and again, briefly, there was that sense that he was trying to put some distance between them. Yet the hungry, almost uncontrolled response to her kisses continued and she knew that he did want this. Badly.

She slid a hand between their bodies and grasped his shirtfront in one fist so that she could ease the tail of it from the waist his trousers. Beneath it, there was the smooth, hot flesh of his belly, the bulging crotch of his trousers. She put her hand to the latter, caressing him and undoing his buttons all in the same slow movement. One, two, three, four buttons, then the waistband loosened into a wide v-shaped gap. She reached inside the gap and beneath the warm woolen folds his body was straining against itself, aching for release. His desire was all hardness and heat; throbbing veins and soft, soft skin that shivered beneath her touch. She wrapped her hand around it and in the stillness of the sleeping house William's soft groan seemed very loud.

"God, I—"

"It's okay," she whispered. She kissed his mouth, his face, his neck, all the while stroking and massaging that very male, very attention-starved part of him. He dropped his head back to look at her and in those glazed blue eyes, she could see him thinking _Dear God. What is she doing to me? _She wanted to tell him not to be frightened, but fear wasn't what it was about and she knew that. It was years of training that were working against him and holding him back. He needed to let himself go and he had no idea how. He was so tense: curbing his instincts, reining himself in. Denying himself the release that he so desperately wanted and needed. She took his hand in her free one and gently unfolded it from a rigid fist to place it—spread—across the soft mound of her breast.

He gave a shuddering sigh that she echoed a moment later. For a moment, she thought he would just hold his hand there because at first he did not move. Then his wide palm rounded across the top of her breast and he traced with his fingers the lines of curve and cleavage, exploring tentatively, delicately, almost as if he thought she would break. Or that he would. The corset squeezed her chest into a prominence that was almost painful, but his hand on her, shyly touching her, made the discomfort seem almost erotic and she pushed herself into his palm wanting more. And almost beyond his own volition, his free hand reached out, cupping her bottom and then sliding all the way down between her legs. His touch was feather-light as he explored the insides of her thighs and the warm place in between. Without even realizing what he was doing, he pressed a bit harder, fingers kneading into her hot, wet, clothed center in just the right way. She moaned sharply and immediately the hand jerked back.

"I hurt you."

"No," she murmured reassuringly. Kissing his sweat-glazed forehead and his soft mouth. "William, no…you didn't hurt me. It felt nice."

He frowned a little, tilting his head to one side in a quizzical manner she found incredibly sweet. "But—"

She quieted him with another kiss. And another. God, his mouth was beautiful. It was slightly swollen from the attention of her lips and teeth and she tried to be gentler, mindful of any tenderness she might have caused. This time when she opened her mouth against him his tongue pushed back against her own, pressing to explore the moist cavern of her mouth. Slowly his hands crept back as if irresistibly drawn to trace each curve, each sleek line of her body. He was writhing beneath her like a man in torment and she, understanding the increasing need for release, intensified her efforts to gratify him. Yet he remained stymied, unable to find his relief.

"Let yourself go," she whispered, worshipping with her kisses, her hands.

Her heart.

She ached for him and suddenly the words spilled out, breathless, against his throat: "I love you, William. Let me love you."

There was the most subtle of starts at that. A sudden out-of-rhythm thumping of his heart against her breastbone.

"Does that surprise you?"

"You nev—you never said—"

"I love you," she said again. She kissed the silky skin at the hollow of his throat, combed through his tangled curls with her one free hand. "I love you, William."

There was a rush of sudden sound and feeling at that, as if the repetition of those three words were the key to unlock his passion. His body bucked against her, sending both of them in a smooth upward arc that would have unseated her except that he held on. He held her so tightly her ribs ached and buried his face in her neck to muffle those soft sounds of pleasure he could not stifle. And in her grasp, that warm column of velvety skin quivered and jerked, throwing a spill of hot liquid against his belly and her hand.

Then—

Only the abrupt stillness as his body went slack and sated underneath her.

Almost exhausted in her own right, Buffy allowed her body to come to rest against him: breasts pressed into his chest, her chin propped on the broad shelf of his shoulder. He was breathing as if he had just run a race and although one arm was across her back and holding her to him, she could sense in his demeanor that things were not exactly okay. She waited for him to say something, to tell her what it was that made him look at her so strangely, but he did not. He said nothing at all. Not then and not afterward, when she climbed off him so he could clean himself up. Not even when she bid him goodnight.

And she realized, too late, that she had made a mistake. She had done just what she had told herself she wouldn't. She had seduced him.

* * *

* * *

He left for the estate before daylight the following morning.

* * *


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Chapter Eighteen**

The first-class compartments on the train were very private. Little boxes with plush velvet bench seats on each side and a large window to look out on the landscape. True, the sliding pocket door did have a glass panel in it, but no one passed by except the lady that pushed the refreshment cart. For this privacy, William was grateful. He felt too mixed up to see anyone and he felt if someone approached him for conversation now he could not bear it.

_What had he done wrong?  
_

It was a question he asked himself repeatedly, torturously, during the train journey home. To say it was a mistake or an accident was dishonest; he knew that. And much as he would like to he could not shy away from the reality that he must have been somehow terrible to her to make her believe she must service him in that way.

His heart hurt at the thought because in spite of all the dishonesty between them—for which he knew he was entirely to blame—never once had he expected anything such as that from her. Her mere presence in his life was enough, more than enough. Her affection was a benediction and after weeks still almost impossible for him to believe. Yet somehow, he had led her to believe that it was not enough, that she also must debase herself.

His thoughts circled back to Charles Archer and those vulgar comments made at the Underwood home. Had Elizabeth taken them so to heart? They said he brought her to him for those sordid purposes. Suppose she had believed them. With everything in him, he had tried to convince her otherwise. All those soft caresses he might have leaned into, all the kisses he might have claimed. Each time he had forced himself to draw away or—worse still—to push her away. He had believed her to be naturally an affectionate person: physical but not overtly sexual because of course women never were. Now came the terrible thought that perhaps all of those embraces were given out of a sense of duty or—or necessity. She said she loved him and he believed her with the whole of his heart. It was only the idea that she felt she must defile her body to keep him that hurt so badly.

He tried to prevent it. Alone in the dark with her, the temptation had already been so strong in him. Then to see her unclothed, to feel the soft touch of her hands on him—he knew it was wrong. He did try to stop it, but how insistent she had been! And in all the lectures from church and school on the subject on practicing self-denial had not prepared him for how good it felt, how very difficult it was to resist.

Even now in his troubled state, he could feel his body betraying him at the memory of her: her hands, her body. On him. For him. From earliest childhood he had been taught that women were to submit to relations not enjoy them. Certainly, they were not expected to initiate. Miss Summers—Elizabeth—had been so assertive in her actions. Almost as if she had been through something similar before although he knew of course she had not. He tried to tell himself only desperation made her so persistent, but there was the memory of her soft mewling, the gentle arch of her body into his hand. _No, _she whispered afterward._ It felt nice. _

He forced his mind from that. Disgusting, that was what he was even to think of it. Perverse. To take advantage of the one person who saw fit to love him. How could he do that? How could he allow her to degrade herself in such a way? He wondered hopelessly how he should ever face her again.

He leaned his flushed forehead against the cool glass of the window and sighed. The only way to even begin rectifying matters would be to put an end to the deceit. He had lied to her for so long. Yet he knew that when he told her the truth she would hate him. She would never believe that his intentions were not for things to turn out this way. Still for the sake of her heart and his own conscience, he knew must tell her.

If he could endure the agony of facing her, that is.

* * *

* * *

While William was wrestling with his guilt on that southbound train, Matthew was deep asleep in the hayloft of the Hartleys' stable. He did not consider this shirking his duty since after all he had been roused an hour early in the predawn cold to take Master William to the train station. The journey to the station was quite a short one actually, but then he must first feed the horses and put on the harness; brush the carriage. All of this must be done and with the utmost haste, according to the Master and something in the man's extreme anxiety alarmed Matthew. He rushed as he was told and by half-past five o'clock, they were on their way. Though they were making excellent time, Master William seemed quite uneasy—so much so, in fact, that Matthew was concerned. He risked a single question.

"I—I do hope, Sir, that there has not been some sudden calamity at the estate."

"No. Of course not," replied the Master. He turned quite pointedly towards the darkened window glass, letting his coachman know in no uncertain terms that he did not wish to discuss the matter further.

It was still dark when they reached the train station, but there were lamps shining inside the station house. Matthew sprang lightly from the box and jogged over to the ticket window. Although the early train was due to arrive in just a quarter of an hour the first class compartments were far from being full and he easily secured one for Master William. After passing off the luggage to a porter, he tipped his hat to the Master and saw him to the train. He was on his way home again before the first light began to fade the black from the sky.

Naturally this nocturnal adventure left Matthew feeling rather exhausted so after he did the morning chores he thought he might take a bit of a rest. He was doing just that, propped up between a stack of straw bales and a grain bin when suddenly his slumber was interrupted. Rudely.

It was Miss Summers, of course.

She kicked the grain bin out from under his feet and Matthew tumbled unceremoniously from his straw bed onto the plank floor.

"What the bleeding hell—?" he sputtered, disoriented by the abrupt wakening.

"Where'd you take him?"

He picked himself up off the floor, rubbing at a bruised elbow as he did so. "Where did I take _whom?_" he asked. But he was certain he already knew.

And he was right.

"William, you idiot. He's gone and I know he didn't walk anywhere in this weather. Where did you take him?"

Matthew frowned. Normally he was very fond of Mrs. Anne's eccentric young nurse, but now he found himself annoyed with her presumption and displeased by her tone. He straightened his coat and adopted a dignified attitude.

"I find myself disinclined to speak with you on this subject, given your current disposition."

She looked confused. "Huh?"

"I've seen more refinement out of the chamber maid," he clarified huffily.

She sighed. "Okay, I get it. I'm sorry. Is that better?"

"Somewhat."

There was the briefest of silences. Then she asked, "So where did he go?"

Matthew looked haughty. He was still annoyed with her. "Well, I took him to King's Cross, didn't I?" he said.

"The _train station?_" She said it in an almost disbelieving tone as if the train station was a place no one visited ever. Matthew shrugged.

"It's difficult to travel by train otherwise."

"He went to the estate." She said it mostly to herself, but Matthew overheard her and saw fit to respond.

"So said his ticket."

To his complete shock, she looked suddenly close to tears. He realized then the reason for the Master's departure was not due to come calamity at the estate. Rather it was due to trouble here in London, and Matthew was almost positive that the root of this trouble was standing right before him. He looked at her with renewed interest.

"He did leave Mrs. Anne a note. Did she not receive it?"

"She isn't awake."

"Ah. I see."

"Did he…did he leave a note for me?" The words were halting, clearly said with embarrassment and difficulty. And Matthew wondered. For weeks, there were the playful insinuations among the servants about this beautiful, common girl. To say nothing of those rumors that had started even before she came to them. For the first time he began to consider them seriously.

Surely, the Master would not do _that, _Matthew told himself. Still he wondered—

He shook his head, suddenly aware he had not answered her question. He watched her carefully as he said, "He did not. Yet he seemed in rather a state of turmoil. Perhaps he forgot?"

There was the briefest expression of hurt in her eyes, yet the vulnerability it implied certainly was not in evidence when she lifted her chin and said condescendingly, "That is probably the dumbest excuse I have ever heard."

"Rather silly," he agreed with her. "Yet I thought I might not be so blunt as to suggest he left because he was angry with you. What happened?" He smirked. "Did you finally decide to give him back his bracelet?"

That fired her temper and she turned to him with an outraged—yet no longer vulnerable—expression. "Piss off!"

Matthew waited until she stormed down the ladder then he resumed his seat on the straw bales. He chuckled quietly. Vulgar creature. No wonder Master William was so eager escape to his country house. He had his hands full with that one.

* * *

* * *

Anne read the note at breakfast, a small frown creasing her forehead. Buffy sat upright in her chair, trying to look as if the small sheet of paper was of very little consequence to her. In reality, it was all she could do not to rip it out of her employer's hand. The explanation of his retreat. What had he said?

Anne did not offer to let her read it. However, as she folded the stationary and slipped it into her dress pocket she said, "The message is from William. He has decided now is a good time to visit the estate. He will telegraph us when he arrives."

"When is he coming back?" Buffy hated her voice for cracking as she asked, but Anne passed over it as if she had not taken note.

"He does not say, only that he will wire us when he decides." She picked up her water goblet, blue eyes watching Buffy fixedly as she spoke in a deceptively idle tone. "I do wonder what reason the haste, however. For weeks now, he might have told us when he planned on leaving. Why leave abruptly when everyone was sleeping?"

Buffy picked at her breakfast without appetite. There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. It felt as if someone had a knife in there, twisting it, and she thought if she ate a bite of food she would be ill right there on the tablecloth. Anne was looking at her expectantly, waiting for an answer. But what answer could she give? The truth—_I molested your only son and now he's run away from home—_was not even to be considered.

She twisted the napkin in her lap, uncertain how to reply. Anne's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

"William is very fond of you, Elizabeth. I hope you know that and I hope you realize what a very great honor that is to you. There can be no greater privilege to a woman than the love of a good man."

Buffy avoided that keen yet kind stare. _God, please stop, _she thought, tearing at her napkin.

But Anne was not finished. She continued softly, "He is so sensitive. That I know is my fault. I never allowed him the opportunity to experience much of life when he was young; I was too overprotective. I never allowed him to stray far from home and in that selfish act, he never had the occasion to make friends. Associates, yes, but never true friends. As a result it is very difficult for him to make himself open to anyone."

She paused, clearly overwrought with feelings of guilt.

"Anne, I—" Buffy was hoping for a chance to escape this painful, embarrassing conversation, but Anne continued obstinately.

"Don't you see how vulnerable he is, Elizabeth? And he loves you so. Please, don't toy with him if you do not mean to return his affections. He won't understand. Please don't hurt him."

Buffy made a soft, strangled sound and did not reply—she could not. Anne looked at her sympathetically.

"I can see this has upset you and I am sorry for it; that was not my intent. You may go now, if you wish."

She fled.

* * *

* * *

That was a miserable time for Buffy. The house felt so empty without him. Lifeless. In fact, life itself, which had become so bright and beautiful, and _easy—_felt suddenly empty. For weeks, he had been the focus of her energies and her interest and now without him she was lost. For hours—days—on end she stood at the big picture window in the parlor, staring at the silvery sheets of sleet and white flakes of lazily drifting snow. The lawn was alternately a white blanket or an icy gray sparkle, but always sodden regardless. The dreary weather seemed to mimic the gray space in the middle of her heart.

He wrote letters. One every single day, although with the unpredictability of the postal service they did not always arrive that way. He did not write to Buffy. All the letters he addressed to Anne. They were brief, generic epistles about the weather and the servants, the crops that were to be planted in late February. At the end of each letter, he wrote a single throw away line to Buffy: _Please extend my best wishes to Miss Summers._

How cold he was being. Aloof. She wondered if he would be that way in person or if he was deliberately staying away from her so that he could maintain the illusion that he did not care. She thought wearily he must be angry with her and felt a twitch of anger at him in return. How could he put his hands on her that night? How could he stare at her in such awe when she told him she loved him only to abandon her the following morning? She felt like kicking herself because after all there had obviously been something wrong between them. Pulling away from her hands, shifting beneath the weight of her body—he had not wanted her to continue. So what if later he acquiesced. It would be difficult for him not to the position she put him in. He would not even talk afterward. Why hadn't she forced him to talk? Yet he did not seem particularly upset or angry over the incident. She thought perhaps he was just over stimulated and trying to take it all in. Now she was pissed off at herself because she had not known better.

Did he think she was some big wanton 'ho now? The etiquette guide in her room had a chapter on "human relations." According to it, women could only submit to a man never enjoy him. Only harlots and loose women professed any real physical interest in sex. A man could visit whorehouses and sleep with the scullery maids as long as he was discreet about it, because men were acknowledged to have needs. But a woman suspected of even kissing a man not her fiancé was subject to banishment.

Which made her—what?

Her blood chilled at the thought. There was so much about him she did not understand. Funny how she had never considered this before, but really most of the conclusions she had drawn were little more than clever assumptions. Up to now, her track record had been amazingly good though now she had a sinking feeling she had fallen at the last fence. Was he ashamed of her now? Did he think to himself that his love for her was disreputable because she had shown herself to be something other than a lady? Was he staying away to try to forget her?

The idea filled her with so much anguish she felt she couldn't bear it. She had put a sword through Angel and that had been torturous enough, but to hurt William, to damage his opinion of her, was so much worse.

The days passed and she began to dream of him. For the first night and every night thereafter there was the same dream—not the sweet and sometimes sensual dreams of before but a horrible vision of Drusilla cornering him in a dirty, darkened alley. Drusilla: beautiful and terrible, evil and broken.

_"Do you want it?" she asked him. Her eyes were soft and dark, so very insane. One hand gently caressed his haggard, tearstained face.  
_

_"Yes" was the hoarse reply. His voice didn't sound right, as if he were drunk; he didn't seem afraid when her demon visage appeared.  
_

_Then her small, sharp teeth in his throat—her own throat jerking as she sucked, pulling the life out of him. He screamed—  
_

The most horrifying thing about the dreams was not their violence or the graphic detail thereof. It was their prophetic quality that unsettled her, the nagging, anxious feeling that followed her all day afterward.

It isn't real,she told herself. But she couldn't quite bring herself to believe it. Because it could be real, couldn't it? It could happen. He was gone, alone and perhaps wandering in the night with protection. He didn't know how dangerous it was to be out after dark. He was a poet; he loved the moonlight.

Buffy was like a caged animal after these dreams. It was not only the dreadful thought that he would die that plagued her, but also a strange, lover-like possessiveness. William was _hers_ and she would be damned if she would let Drusilla take him from her.

Her days spent gazing out the window became days of pacing the floor, chewing on her bottom lip. She couldn't eat. She became irritable with the staff and short-tempered even with Anne, who became so concerned about her she wanted to call the doctor. Buffy wouldn't let her. She tried not to let herself get caught up in it because it was just a dream. But anxiety gnawed at her, tormented her, and eventually drove her out into the London night.

* * *


	20. Chapter Nineteen

**Chapter Nineteen **

For six straight nights, she crept out of the servants' entrance in the basement to roam the darkened streets. She had to wait until the servants were asleep. This was usually quite late, given their duties, so it was seldom that she left before midnight or one o'clock. She went on foot because she could not involve Matthew in this, also because she had no money for a cab. Anyway, walking was better. She could see more and hear more if she were walking.

The city streets were quiet at night but not empty. In the residential neighborhoods, there were beautifully dressed couples traveling home from late night parties. In the business districts, there were men arranging merchandise on shelves, toiling over hot ovens, tallying up account books. Everywhere, there were prostitutes.

Buffy saw it all, but she thought of none of it. Her thoughts were too obsessively fixed on Drusilla to ponder over the fairness of a world that allowed her such luxury, and yet made a young boy slave about in a baker's or butcher's before dawn each morning.

She prowled as far as her energetic legs and hobbling long skirts would allow her to. Other vampires she dispatched en route without thought to how their demise might alter the future; she simply did not care anymore. Anyway, the dusting of those lesser vamps relieved her of some of her tension, because as hard as she looked and as long as she looked, she didn't find Drusilla anywhere. It worried her. If Drusilla were not in London, she might be anywhere. She might be where William was. The thought terrified her, and she redoubled her efforts. Still, for all her hard work she found absolutely nothing.

Instead, something found _her._

It was the sixth night—the last night—she went hunting. Two fledglings had accosted her outside a pub, and she effortlessly destroyed them, but it had taken time because she could not do so without the standard number of quips and retorts, the mocking of them for being so weak when she was so strong. It was nearing dawn by then, and she was exhausted from walking, ready to go home to a hot bath and bed. She was strolling home in the sooty, predawn light when he caught her completely unawares.

The attack came first not as a blow but a snatch, a heavy, muscled arm against her throat and pulling her backward against him. A stony jawbone dug into her cheek as the assailant lowered his head to whisper in her ear.

"Well, well and what a rich ripe plum of a woman to be ranging the streets at such an hour. Shall I take a bite, or be unselfish and call the others to have a share?"

It was a raspy voice, heavy with brogue, and Buffy's heart almost stopped. She did not have to see his face to know who it was.

Angel.

No, not Angel.

_Angelus._

She was so stunned that she might not have been able to move had her slayer instincts not suddenly kicked in. She elbowed him in the gut, and when his grip loosened, she twisted around to knee him in the nuts.

He grunted. "Bitch—"

"So I've been told."

"This'll be the last time, I'd wager."

Angelus straightened up. He was bigger than she remembered: tall and heavy with muscle although perhaps that was because he was drinking human blood and not the butcher's fare from the future. His hair was long and disheveled. Although he wore elegant clothes, he wore them with the air of a costume, and she knew his human self had not been born into the refined position he now assumed.

She raised her stake.

"You're taking bets, then? I'm going two to one on kicking your ass."

His eyes widened at the sight of the stake, but he looked amused rather than afraid. He gave a crooked grin.

"Oh…pretty, pretty…kitty has claws." He made a sort of backwards spin, one long leg shooting out so that the ankle hooked behind hers and pulled her to the ground. He was on her in an instant. His breath stank of death as it passed over her face when he muttered, "You'll be a fun one to play with."

"Playtime's over—"

She brought her knee up and thrust him off, and then rolled clear. She was on her feet a second before he recovered himself, but she did not have the opportunity to stake him; he was too quick and she too far away.

The corner of his mouth turned down, dark eyes carefully scrutinizing as he walked a slow circle around her. "You're a slayer." It wasn't a question.

"Haven't you heard? Only one slayer per generation; you've already got yours."

"I ripped out her throat." A lie.

He threw something at her then, a heavy piece of steel or wood he'd pulled from the ground. Buffy jumped over it before it could hit her. She did a back flip to recover herself.

"Nice," Angelus said approvingly. "I'll wager you're a limber one in the marriage bed."

"You'll never find out."

She kicked high, aiming for the underside of his chin, but he was so _quick_. He grabbed her ankle and twisted it, pulling her down to the paving stones with a force that winded her. He was on her in a moment, straddling. He pinned her arms to her sides and gave her a grisly smile.

"Oh, I'll have you if I wish—and I do wish. I'll split you wide open and then drink what's left."

Buffy tried to knee him again, but this time he parked his ass right on her thighs and she couldn't move her legs.

She couldn't move at all.

* * *

* * *

Ninety miles away, in the darkened master bedroom of his family's Wiltshire estate, William sat up in bed. Sleep was gone in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming terror he could not name or understand. There was only a clutching feeling of death and danger.

"Elizabeth—"

* * *

* * *

He pivoted his hips forward, so that it was his groin and not his bum that was pressing into her lower body. She could feel his erection digging into her hipbone, and she felt a sudden blind terror. Because Angelus never just killed his victims. He never _just_ killed them. He tortured them first.

"Who's taking bets now, huh?"

He yanked her right arm up and around, almost pulling it from its socket. She screamed, and he did not try to stifle her. Rather, it seemed to excite him, and he goaded her.

"Now, lamb. Let's see how limber you really are."

He released her injured arm to rummage beneath her skirts, and for the moment, she let him. Her arm was hurting so badly her mouth watered, and she wasn't sure she could use it in any successful way even if she tried. It was when he dropped his head to look at what he had uncovered that she saw her way out of the situation. She was not in the position to butt him in the forehead, but she rose up as far as his grip would allow, and pulled her head to one side, crashing the side of her skull against his temple with a force that stunned them both.

Buffy recovered first. She slammed him with her good arm, knocking him off and to the side of her. She scrambled to her feet.

He'd knocked her stake somewhere, but she did not have time to look for it. He was on his feet and angry. The buttons of his trousers were undone, but for the moment, it was something neither of them took into consideration.

"Think you're clever don't you?"

"No. You just looked a little small to me. Girth matters in something like that you know, pencil prick?"

"Well, I guess she told you. Didn't she, Angelus?"

This third voice—feminine and derisive—made them both pause in their battle. But whereas Angelus regarded the interruption with a kind of smug pleasure, Buffy was sent into even greater terror.

It was Darla.

And Drusilla.

* * *

* * *

Colin, the estate valet, stared wide-eyed at the trunk that sat parked in the middle of the Persian rug, clothing thrown helter-skelter into its depths. William paced around the room, his shirt collar undone and his hair disheveled. He was packing the trunk in a haphazard sort of way, almost as if he did not see what was before him.

"Sir—" Colin began.

"Do not talk now—don't you dare!" barked William. "I gave you an order, and you are to follow it through! I am leaving tonight."

"But the train schedules—we don't even know—"

"Then I shall sit in the damned train station until the bloody thing arrives! I'm not asking for your opinion, I'm telling you to go wake up the grooms and tell them to ready the horses."

His blue eyes were wide and almost maddened by his extreme fear; Colin edged nearer to the doorway.

"As you wish, sir."

* * *

* * *

"I don't like her, Daddy," Drusilla said in childlike tones. "She looks as if she'd like to take our toys."

"Ach, no, Dru. She _is_ our toy. Don't you see it? A fine blonde doll you can take apart…once I am done with her."

Darla smirked. "There are definitely some possibilities, but whatever you're planning on doing you'd best get it done. Daylight is approaching."

Buffy—pressed back up against the brick wall by their approach—suddenly felt a flicker of hope.

_Daylight! If I can just distract him until the sun comes up!_

"Screw with me, and I'll shove your damned toys up your ass." She was mouthing off with far more confidence than she actually felt, but it was a good bluff. And it distracted them.

"Listen to the mouth on her," Angelus chuckled.

"Hmm. And what exactly has her mouth been on?" asked Darla. She had just taken note of her lover's unbuttoned fly.

"Hush, now. I was going to invite you to play."

"I don't like this play," whined Drusilla. Her dark eyes bore into Buffy's with an unsettling kind of understanding. "I see her future, and it's all mixed up. Can't we play something else?"

"Later, Dru. Right now, I've got a game to finish." Angelus shook his head, and like a veil dropping, the demon's face emerged. He smiled a sharp-toothed smile at Buffy. "Looks like I'm winning this one doesn't it, pretty?"

Buffy's eyes darted to the space behind him, the night sky that was just beginning to turn a hazy purple. If she could just stall him—if she could just hold him off a few minutes more—

But she didn't even have a stake.

She groped blindly behind her back, hoping to find some sort of weapon. But all she felt was the rough brick of the wall, the jagged edged of a shattered window.

A window.

_Glass!_

She snapped off a piece of it and held it hidden behind her back. It would not kill him, of course, but she didn't need to kill him. All she needed was time—

"Come on, my lovely. Don't you have some reply to me?" He moved closer, leaning into her face in a way that was both hostile and flirting. Darla made an impatient noise.

"Come on, Angelus. Hurry up!"

"Ah, Darla, will you leave me be? You've got no mind for these types of things and no finesse. Blood tastes better when there's a touch of fear in it."

Big, calloused hands gripped her shoulders and forced her tighter against the wall. Buffy didn't fight him, but one hand was behind her back, clutching that shard of glass. Waiting.

The moment came just as he drove for her throat. She heard the feral growl, felt the fetid, cold breath against her cheek. She pulled out her arm and slashed at him with the glass. Her attack was desperate and indiscriminant. He howled as the sharp edge of the glass came down on his head, slicing his scalp open to the bone. He released his hold on her shoulders, and she kicked him in the chest, kicked him away.

The other two came at her, but Buffy blindly, instinctively, evaded them. She must have cut Darla, because she heard a shriek, followed by the exclamation, "That little bitch ruined my dress!" But she didn't stop to see. She didn't stop to fight. She ran down the cobbled street and into the blessed, blinding light of the rising sun. She ran home.

* * *

* * *

William stared stonily into the face of the young groom that acted as coachman while Matthew was in the city. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, sir. That is what the ticket agent said. There are no trains to London this morning or tonight, nothing at all until five o'clock tomorrow evening."

Silence. Displeasure.

The groom squirmed uneasily beneath William's gaze. "I—shall I bring 'round the coach for your, sir?"

"No."

The brief answer did nothing to dispel the groom's anxiety. He glanced toward the station, then back to his Master, wondering what he could say to please the man.

"I might inquire as to buying an advanced ticket?"

"Do not trouble yourself," William answered brusquely. "It won't be necessary. I am waiting here."

The groom gaped at him.

"Sir—do you mean—are you staying all day and all night?"

"I mean I am staying until the train comes to take me away."

* * *

* * *

Buffy burst into the house with a noise that would have woken the dead, and the servants, who were already awake, came quickly to see what was wrong. They found her in a crumpled, hysterical heap in the middle of the foyer floor. The bodice of her dress was ripped, and below the dirty hem of her skirts, the torn, loose leg of her pantalets had fallen. The men looked away to preserve her modesty, but the women stared. They stood and stared until Mrs. Fitzpatrick threw a rug across her shoulders, and ordered her to hold it closed.

"Go fetch Mrs. Anne," she ordered one of the maids. The girl looked shocked.

"Ma'am? The mistress is still asleep—"

"And do you think I've taken leave of my senses? I can see for myself the mistress is still asleep, but this girl is in danger of having a fit. Mrs. Anne would wish to know! Go wake her."

The girl left at once, and Mrs. Fitzpatrick turned, once again, to Buffy.

"Calm down, child!"

Buffy could not calm down. She didn't know why. Maybe it was Angelus mauling her like that, a feeling that was so familiar and yet so alien. Maybe it was just seeing Angel a monster, that same monster that killed Jenny Calendar, a monster that was now at the top of his game. Maybe it was Drusilla, the realization that she could not protect William no matter how she desired to. Because she knew now she could never kill Drusilla, she could not kill any of them. They were in top form, and she had grown slow and soft in those months of idleness. Perhaps worst of all, they frightened her. She could not bear to face them again.

Which left William where?

Mrs. Fitzpatrick grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. "Get hold of yourself! Do you want the mistress to see you in such a state?"

The mention of Anne subdued her somewhat. Not completely, but somewhat. She looked up at the housekeeper from underneath wet lashes. "Sorry—"

"Sake's alive don't be _sorry._ Just tell me where you took yourself at such an ungodly hour."

"Couldn't sleep," she rasped. "I went for a walk—"

"A walk! At this hour! No wonder you should find yourself in such trouble. Was it a man? Did he—?"

"No!" She struggled to sit up. "No…he tried to rob me but I…I got away."

Mrs. Fitzpatrick eyed the rug wrapped around Buffy's chest, and she was obviously skeptical to the story. However, to her credit she said nothing. Not then and not when Anne burst into the room a few moments later.

"Elizabeth, what were you thinking?" Anne demanded, once she heard the story. "Wandering about the neighborhood at this late hour and without a chaperone! Do you wish to be killed?"

"Of course not," said Buffy weakly. "I—I was—"

"You were what?"

Inspiration struck, and she said, "I was feeling upset about William. I went for a walk, just in front of the house…just to clear my head."

The ploy worked, and Anne's attention shifted from the attack to the more pressing matter of her son's happiness.

"What happened with William, Elizabeth? Did the two of you have some sort of disagreement?"

"A disagreement…it was my fault."

"That was why his departure was so abrupt?"

Buffy thought: _That and the fact I jacked him off against his will._

Buffy said, "That's why."

Anne pulled her wrap a little tighter about her and uttered a small cough. "Perhaps—perhaps we might wire him about this—incident. I am sure he will return in haste. He cares very deeply for you; one argument could not possibly change that."

"No," she said quickly. The thought of luring him home out of some sense of duty or pity made her cringe. "No. Don't send for him. Really, I'm fine."

"Elizabeth—"

"Anne, _please._"

"All right, dear, if you wish. Yet I cannot help but feel you are making a mistake."

"I'm not, really. He's busy where he's at, and I'm fine." She stood up, wincing as she did at the soreness of her body. "Well, almost fine anyway."

Anne watched her closely, sympathetically. "Should I ask one of the maids to prepare a bath for you?"

Buffy nodded gratefully. "Thank you and—and tell them to make the water really _hot."_

She could still feel those rough, horrible hands between her legs.

* * *


	21. Chapter Twenty

**Chapter Twenty**

The train was late coming into the London station, as usual, and William was exhausted by the time he stepped out onto the platform. He had not slept at all the night before, although it was his concern for Elizabeth that accounted for that rather than the discomfort of the hard wooden benches of the waiting room. He felt unclean and disheveled, yet he hardly gave it a thought. Because it didn't matter if he looked awful, it didn't matter if she hated him for what he'd done and would not see him when he arrived. Just to look at her, even from afar. Just to know that she was all right—

He could not account for his fear. There had been no dreams or visions only the total and encompassing horror that had pulled him from his sleep. It was burned across his mind like a brand, that fear, the thought—the _certainty_—that she was in danger.

That she needed him.

He left his trunk with the porter (Matthew could fetch it in the morning) and wearily made his way down to the dirt lawn and the row of shabby carriages parked before the cabstand. There was a rush because several trains had arrived in rapid succession and many of the cabs were engaged quickly. William waited his turn on the edge of the crowd, shifting from side to side on impatient feet. Longing to be home and yet unable to renounce that deeply ingrained sense of honor that prevented him from shoving others aside and claiming the first carriage he came across.

Perhaps it was a mistake. One by one the drivers backed their horses out of the stand and pulled out onto the dusty road until eventually the place was deserted but for William and one of two other unfortunate travelers. There was nothing to do but wait for the drivers to return and William did this resignedly. It seemed to him he would never get home, that he would never again see her face—

Footsteps crunched in the hard-packed dirt behind him but he did not turn around or take any notice of it. Not until a hand touched his shoulder and a rasping, masculine said into his ear:

"Well, well, well."

* * *

* * *

She hadn't felt like this—truly terrified—since her mother had died.

It was a different type of fear, of course and on a different level, but that made it no easier to deal with. It wasn't only that she had been attacked; it was not only that he threatened to rape her. No, there was also the less tangible fear of being so completely helpless about it. She knew it was not only her lack of fitness that had done her in because she would not have been able to kill him that first time…not that first time without Spike's help. Not without Willow's spell to return his soul and offer her, for a split second, the opportunity to put a sword through his chest. No matter how experienced she became, no matter how strong she was she knew Angelus would always have the ability to bring her to her knees. Because she was afraid of him.

Although she had braced herself for his appearance, she realized now she had never actually expected it. London was a big city and she felt easily lost in it, safe within the confines of Anne's comfortable home. Her fears had been limited only to William who in his daily treks out to work was vulnerable. She had never thought to be afraid for herself.

Now she lived with fear. She ate it for breakfast and she took it to bed with her. That night following the attack she spent awake in her bed, jumping at small sounds and prowling the house at the least sign that something might be wrong, certain—always certain—that it would be _him _coming after her. It was silly of her, she knew. Angelus had no idea who she was or where she lived. He could not possibly come after her. But—

_He knows I'm a Slayer._

Would he hunt her down because she was a Slayer? None of Giles' books had ever indicated him to be Slayer killer; that distinction had always gone to Spike. Then again, he'd certainly not shied away from her last night. Her head ached with the possibilities.

Angelus made her fear for herself but Drusilla made her fear for William. What was it that had her so convinced that Dru would have him even now? Hard to say. Maybe it was just her unwavering belief in destiny. Giles had so often spoken of Buffy's own. Suppose it was William's destiny to become Spike. Suppose she must spend her entire existence with him looking over her shoulder, waiting for something to leap out of the shadows and steal him away. It was a dismal thought and one that certainly did not help her to rest better.

Buffy had left her window ajar in order to hear any sounds of intruders approaching. It made the room very cold and she shivered beneath the thick wrap of her quilts and blankets, yet she could not bear to shut it. Having it open so she could hear the sounds of the street below made her feel safer somehow, as if she had gained an advantage.

She was never more grateful for her forethought than when a few minutes later after the clock struck one there came a sound of horses' hooves clicking on cobblestone down on the street. This would not have been much cause for concern except that the sound stopped directly before the house. Buffy bolted upright, shivering with cold and fear. Her keen ears strained through the silence of the night, barely catching the faint sounds of the voices below.

"Well, 'ere we are, Sir." It was a masculine voice with a thick, South London accent, obviously that of a hackney driver.

An indistinct answer from his passenger and then Buffy heard the soft sounds of shoes hitting stone as the man (she was sure by the sound of him he was a man) exited the coach. There was a silence then again the voice of the driver thanking his customer for the tip. Afterward the coach pulled away.

For the tenth time that night, Buffy slipped out of bed and into her coat. That afternoon while Anne was having her nap she had slipped out to the back garden and snapped a thick branch off one of the decorative shrubs. She had no tools to make it into a real stake, but it was sharp on the end she had broken and like the other makeshift stake she had carried, Buffy was sure it would do the trick. Now she grabbed it off the nightstand and darted silently out into the corridor.

Down the stairs and through the foyer she went, stopping only when she reached the cold front walk. There her keen ears could detect the sound of his footsteps and they were walking behind the garden wall toward the back gate. Her breath caught. No one came to the back gate except servants and deliverymen; now the servants were asleep and no deliveryman would be working at one o'clock in the morning. So who would be—? But her mind answered even before the question was fully formed: _Vampire.  
_

She ran out the side of the house into the back garden, reaching it by the side gate just before the intruder reached the back one.

The wooden gate creaked softly on its hinges as someone pushed it open. Buffy waited for the corresponding click but the intruder did not bother shutting it behind him. Footsteps drew closer and she padded silently on the crust of fallen snow, silently around to where she could see him as he approached the door. She clutched her crude wooden stake to her side and waited for the prowler to show himself.

Buffy prepared herself for a fight but she could not prepare herself for the blinding panic that followed. In the darkness all she could see of the vampire was his silhouette and in that silhouette—wide shoulders and sweeping dark coat, quick purposeful stride—she could read not only vampire, but also Angel.

No, not Angel. Angelus.

If she had been in her right mind, she would have realized that the rapidly advancing outline was both shorter and slighter than Angelus. Yet after so many nights of dreaming him, of envisioning her death and William's turning, she could think of nothing but Angelus.

Still she waited, trembling but resolute, until the figure pulled up abruptly and a hoarse voice said "Miss Summers—?"

Even in her immense relief, her heart could have broken at that. Miss Summers, he had said. Not Elizabeth.

"William." It was all she could say. She dropped the stake that thankfully he had not noticed and pushed it beneath a shrub with her heel.

"Are you all right?" he asked and she thought in bewilderment it almost sounded as if he had been crying. He took a step forward and asked again. "Are you quite all right?"

"I—I'm—" Her mind didn't seem to want to work right and instead of answering his question she mumbled dazedly, "You were supposed to wire us before you came back."

"I did not allow myself time to wire," he answered in a choked tone. "I—my desire was such that I felt I must leave immediately."

Buffy put a hand to her forehead and tried to pull together her scattered thoughts. His desire. What did she know about his desire?

He said again, "Are you quite sure you are all right?"

This time she managed to answer him. "Yes."

"What—what are you doing outside so late and in such dreadful weather? And—and wearing—"

She was wearing only her nightdress, her bedroom slippers and the coat. It was odd that she had forgotten about it until now. She perceived the tightness in his tone as disapproval and wrapped her coat more closely around her body. She started to turn away. "Nothing," she said. "I—I'm not doing anything. Just going inside."

"Wait. Please wait. I—I want to speak with you."

She felt bewildered by all that had happened and was happening. The sting of William's defection was still upon her and this, mixed with the stress of meeting Angelus—and worrying about meeting Angelus again—made her want to scream. For a moment, her temper goaded her so that she was tempted to slap him and say this: _You want to speak with me, you fucking bastard. Well, too bad! You had your chance and you left. _However, it was a momentary anger, over before the words reached her lips.

After all, it was _her _fault he left. She knew that.

She also knew—or thought she knew—what it was he wanted to say and because she wanted to prolong that moment she was loath or answer his question. She tried to distract him with another topic.

"It's late."

He shifted and although she could not see his face in the shadows, Buffy could feel his discomfort when he answered, "Yes."

"The last train stops running at nine. Where have you been?"

His hand reached out again, hovering over but not quite touching, her arm. "Miss Summers, please. May I…?"

Miss Summers. She thought she knew exactly what it was he wanted to say and it hurt. She swallowed hard.

"Go ahead."

"I—I want to apologize to you for leaving so suddenly; it was unkind. Yet my shame was such that I felt—I felt that I could not bear to face you—"

Although they were no more than she had expected the words were like a slap in the face; Buffy winced.

"Look," she interrupted. "You don't have to say all that; you don't have to explain. I know why you left. I know you think I'm some kind of whore—uh, horrible person. But—"

He took another clumsy step forward and this time she felt his fingertips brush her elbow. "Miss Summers—I _don't _think you are a horrible person."

Anger flared again. She shook off his grasping hand.

"Oh, yeah? What's with the 'Miss Summers' then? Because as I recall, before you left you were calling me by my first name."

She had always wondered if he really had a breaking point where she was concerned, now it seemed she had found it. He grabbed her upper arms with a force that surprised her and pushed her into the side of the summerhouse, pinned her there with his hands and the weight of his body. His grip was not painful but it was surprisingly strong. Still she could have shoved him off, but she did not. His face was in hers: hot breath and anger, something that was not anger. She was stunned.

"It is not you I am ashamed of!" he bit out. "It is myself!"

"Well what did _you _do? I'm the one that raped you in the library."

He didn't seem to hear her. His fingertips dug into her flesh.

"Don't you understand? I despise myself! The very notion that I should have so used you. That I made you believe—that I made you—"

"You didn't make me do anything," said Buffy, shocked that he should even think he had. "You didn't do anything except make me believe that you loved me."

"I _do _love you," he breathed. "God help me, I love you to exclusion of everything and everyone else. Yet I lie to you and I use you—"

She could feel his nose pressing into her temple, his soft mouth at her jaw and although he did not do it in a caressing way, Buffy felt a sudden sharp stab of arousal. To have him so close after weeks of separation made her dizzy and she answered almost without conscious thought: "You don't use me."

"I do!" he argued and his tone was violent even if his hands were not. "I do! You just don't know it!"

"Then tell me."

"I lied to you—I have lied to you since the beginning—"

"About what?" she asked. He made a sound almost like a sob and released her.

"Everything," he whispered brokenly. "When first we met—"

"What?" She was bewildered.

"I had seen you before."

Something in the way he said it—dully—made her heart stop beating.

"When did you see me?" she asked carefully.

"I own a number of warehouses where goods are shipped and stored. The accountant and I…we were doing the tally that day, making sure the amounts matched. I was returning home and suddenly Matthew pulled the horses up. At first, I was angry because usually he was so gentle with them and this time he used a force as if to break their jaws. Yet it was not his fault; it was a young woman who stepped into the road, in front of the coach, and he was afraid he might run her over and do her an injury."

William paused a moment and Buffy's breath caught in her throat. "Me—?" she choked. He went on as if he had not heard.

"I watched out the glass as she crossed to the left and I was angry at her carelessness. Then I saw her and—and she was weeping. She was carrying a basket that looked very heavy and she was weeping as if her heart had broken. She was beautiful and ill dressed and she looked so—so sad. And there was a building, a dilapidated house with a sign on the lawn—it was a job house. It was lowly place and the instant before she stepped onto the lawn the young woman glanced toward me—not at me but in my direction. And her eyes—God, her eyes—"

Again, he stopped, but this time he took his breath and went on unprompted.

"Her eyes were lost and terribly sad. She disappeared through the gate and into the house. The coach went on, but I could not force my thoughts from her. I know she had not seen me. Yet I felt in my heart she was calling for help, calling for me. Mother was in need of a nurse anyway and the house was a job house. I could not stop thinking of it. I thought—I wanted to—h—help her—"

The words ended abruptly on a stutter and Buffy could not fathom what he was thinking. She herself felt as if she might cry. She didn't remember the incident he described, but she remembered being often sent to the market by Dorothea. She remembered those frightening, tiresome days of trudging through dirty streets lugging the shopping basket. And how many days had she cried? Every day, every single day she had cried until she arrived at the Hartleys.

A thousand questions she wanted to ask him, but only one could she give voice to.

"You—you told your mother to buy me those clothes."

"Yes," he admitted softly. "Although I did not explain to her why. She was longing for another woman in the house—a daughter—anyway and she did not ask.

"_She dresses very well for a servant."  
_

Those words she had once believed disapproving. Now she understood he had meant it for a joke to his mother. She felt a sudden twinge of sadness because she had thought Anne loved her. She thought Anne was like Joyce. Instead, it seemed that all the kindness was because hehad told Anne to be kind. It was William that had wanted to pamper her and make her feel welcome, not Anne.

As if sensing her doubts William said suddenly, "She loved you from the first, Elizabeth. She wrote me of it. She said you were spirited and kind, all alone in the city and in need of a family as your own were gone. She never questioned the new clothing or anything else because she wanted it as well. She wanted your happiness."

"Why would you—" she began, but unshed tears clogged her throat and she could not finish.

"I cannot explain it. Only that I felt as if I knew you, as if I had known you for years. When you looked at me thus, so terribly adrift, it was as if you were a friend pleading with me for rescue. I could not bear to leave you in such misery."

"Why are you telling me all this now?"

"Because now I find myself questioning my own motives! All along, I believed it was only for the safety and happiness of a vulnerable woman that I was doing these things. I even went away before you arrived so you would not construe my presence as a threat. So many men are unscrupulous and take advantage of such things. Yet perhaps I was lying to myself as well as to you…otherwise what happened between us would not have happened."

"You didn't force me to do it," Buffy whispered.

"I made you believe it was necessary to do so. I confess that I—I had even thought about it before—thought about you—" He uttered a defeated sigh. "What you must think of me."

What must she think of him? How could he even say that? He could he think—? He had pulled her out of poverty, of misery. He had given her a home and a mother and—and his whole self. And he was afraid that she—

"Why would I think badly of you because you thought about touching me? William—" she gripped shoulders, forced him to look at her although she could not see his face. "William, I thought about it, too. Why else do you think I would—and you never made believe I had to do it, not a single time. I did it because I—because I love you—because I wanted to show you how much I love you—"

"There are other ways!" he flared, angry though not necessarily with her. "There are so many other ways you might have shown me—ways that would have offered you pleasure instead of disgrace. Yet my own behavior encouraged yours. I _made_ you—"

Buffy's head was spinning. God, how had things gotten so mixed up between them? How could she fix this?

"Do you think I would have done it if I didn't feel pleasure?" she demanded wearily. "I wanted your hands on me! I wanted to touch you and make you feel good."

"Women don't—"

"Women _do!_ Whether those pasty-faced preachers and buttoned-up society idiots believe it or not women do feel pleasure! Maybe the reason they don't realize that is because their women _don't_ enjoy it! Because those men have no idea what they are doing—because they're rough and fast and—and—and because they act as if their wives are possessions or cattle!"

She was almost shouting at him and he stepped back in confusion; but her arms that had draped across his shoulders were suddenly tight around his neck and holding him against her. Her next words were desperate but hushed, murmured into the warm, sweet-smelling folds of his overcoat. "Tell me I'm some big wanton tramp! Tell me I'm disgusting for doing what I did and that you don't want me around anymore! But don't tell me I don't love you or that I didn't enjoy making you feel good—or that you forced me! Don't blame yourself for it!"

"No!" His voice was hoarse, as distressed as her own, but twice a soft. His arms went around her, one hand combing through her long hair as he repeated "No, no, no. You are not loose, or disgusting or unwanted. Please do not think I see you as such. I love you. I love everything about you. I love you impulsiveness and your spirit, your way of speech. I love all those other indescribable charms you possess. I feel as if I have loved you forever. All I have wanted—all I want—"

"Is what—?"

He nuzzled against her temple, breathing slowly, heavily into her ear. "Only to be worthy of you."

She kissed him then, softly, gently on the very edge of his jaw. "You already _are_ worthy of me."

But she knew he didn't believe her.

* * *

* * *

It was too cold to stay outside any longer. They tiptoed through the darkened corridor of the servants' quarters, up the stairs and into the main level of the house. Buffy lit the kerosene table lamp in the hallway and almost immediately, William started to draw away, sidling slightly to the right in the direction of the staircase.

"Where are you going?" she whispered. He paused, his face bathed in shadows.

"I—felt—it—it is so late—"

"I know it is. I won't keep you long. I just…can I…?"

She reached out to him then, a subtle almost imperceptible gesture of want, but William saw it and understood. He took a step forward and Buffy got a brief flash of deep blue eyes and glinting spectacles. Then his arms went around her, pulling her close against his chest, drawing her head against his shoulder. The cold from outdoors was still on his clothes; it seeped through the wool of Buffy's coat, the thin fabric of her nightdress, but she hardly noticed it. After almost two weeks, his arms were around her again and that was all that mattered.

He pressed his mouth into the top of her head, whispered into her hair. "My sweetheart, please forgive me for leaving you. I missed you so—"

"Nothing to forgive," she answered. "I missed you too. I was so worried—"

Now why did he suddenly flinch at that?

Buffy felt the smallest recoil from him, all his muscles suddenly tense and drawn. She drew back just slightly, just enough so that she might see him. He had his head turned a little to one side, but the angle seemed wrong, contrived as if he were posing for a photograph. She reached up and rested an index finger against his chin, pressing gently to make him face her. He did not resist her, only drew a little sigh. He did not quite meet her eyes as he said, "Well…"

Her heart jumped as she saw his face clearly for the first time that night. Her hand dropped away.

"Oh, William—"

* * *


	22. Chapter TwentyOne

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Buffy's hand fell to her side then came to touch her forehead. She wanted to stay calm for him, to be gentle and reassuring, but the words left her lips before she could even think to stop them.

"Jesus Christ, William."

He looked down at the floor then as if ashamed or embarrassed at that which drew such an extreme reaction from her. But he didn't say anything.

In the dim flickering light of the lamp, his right cheekbone bloomed in a half-dozen different hues of black and blue, and there was a split to the skin as if someone had been wearing a ring when they struck him. His nose looked all right, and his mouth, but his right eye was a misshapen slit ringed by a dark shade of purple. A ribbon of blood snaked from another cut on his temple and did not quite meet the bottom of his jaw. There were smudges of dirt on his white shirt, as if someone had kicked him in his ribs and his belly. His spectacles were bent, the right lens cracked and broken. He saw her looking at them and he quickly pulled them off, sticking them into the pocket of his coat.

In truth, the injuries were not so terribly severe; they looked to be the work of an unpracticed or somewhat weak individual—at least in Buffy's eyes, which had seen so much worse in her lifetime. It was the fact that he was blemished, that someone had so mishandled that tender, handsome face, which angered her. She wiped a bit at the blood with the pad of her thumb and this time when she spoke her voice was soft.

"Who did it?"

He did not quite meet her eyes as he murmured, "You do surprise me. I fell, of course, and did myself an injury. On the ice. I fell."

"Don't do that. Don't lie."

He flushed at that.

"Were you robbed?"

Almost before the question was out of her mouth, she knew the answer. Not robbed. There was a mutinous look on his face, a barely contained anger in those blue eyes. And she knew—she just knew—

"It was Archer. Wasn't it?"

He said nothing, but she could read the truth in his expression, the way he raised one shoulder in that familiar gesture of discomfort and reserve, of experienced self-preservation. She pressed, "Why did he hit you? You didn't jump him again for that smack he was talking. Did you? Because honestly I don't think it's worth your time—"

"Smack?" He sounded puzzled. "I don't—"

"Insults."

Again, silence. He fidgeted and looked away. Buffy sighed. A confusing mix of affection, concern, and exasperation washed over her. Only the latter emotion spilled over into words.

"God, what is with you people? I thought the English upper class were supposed to be all reserved and polite and refined. Now it seems every time I turn around there you are throwing down like a prize fighter over some idiot whose opinion shouldn't even mean anything to you—"

"It was them!" he burst out. "Charles and—and—and David Havisham. They said—"

"Who cares what they said?" she demanded. "Why are you getting so angry about it? Is it because deep down you're afraid they're right?"

The anger that had been directed at them swiftly turned to her. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, ordered through gritted teeth: "Don't say that! I could never think—"

She made an impatient sound, not at all intimidated by his show of temper.

"Well what is it then? Why do you care what they think?"

His tone softened. "What kind of love could I claim if I were not willing to defend you?" he asked. That of course completely disarmed her. She touched the wound at his temple gently.

"Tell me what happened. Did they just come up and tap you on the shoulder…and then call me a trollop?"

He raised the eyebrow that wasn't swollen and she shook her head in disbelief.

"They did. Okay, that just reeks of class. Then what happened? Did you hit them?"

"I tell you it was _him._ Archer. He had no right—"

"So you hit him," she interrupted. "Then he hit you back."

"He would not have dared had Havisham not been there; Charles was there to meet him off the train. It was a cowardly thing."

Buffy could see talking about it only agitated him more. She promptly changed the subject.

"Come on." She tugged on his arm gently. "Come sit in the parlor and we'll fix you up."

He followed her obediently into the dark room, even carried the lamp for her. But he could not seem to settle down.

"I should call him out for his ungentlemanly behavior," he insisted, low. "To insult a lady, to accuse her of such terrible, vulgar things; it is unlawful. I should kill him—"

The matter-of-fact way with which he said it alarmed her. She pushed him back down into his chair. "Don't say that. You're not going to kill anybody."

He fell into a brooding silence that Buffy struggled to ignore. She knew he was still seething inside, she just didn't know what to do about it.

"Here," she said eventually, and held out one hand. "Give me your handkerchief and I'll run get you some ice for your face."

William surrendered it without comment and she hurried out of the room. There was a draft in the foyer and she was shivering even before she reached the door. Nevertheless, she wrenched it open and stepped outside into the biting cold. There were icicles hanging from the eaves and she jumped up and knocked them down with both fists—not exactly easy but still a simpler task then running down cellar to chisel pieces off the huge blocks the Hartleys bought off a vender. She wrapped some of the bigger chunks in his handkerchief and ran back into the house.

Back in the parlor, she placed the lamp nearer to his chair so that she could see his face clearly. He had a cut beneath his eye she had not noticed before; it was more than an inch long from the middle of his under-eye to past the corner. She traced it lightly with her fingertip and he sucked in his breath.

"Was it your spectacles? Did the glass scratch your eye?"

He nodded. Then added upon seeing her worried expression: "Truly, it is all right. It does not hurt and I can go to Dr. Wright tomorrow to see about getting a new pair made. It is only the idea that he should be spreading such lies about you—"

She could see him getting annoyed again and quickly pressed the bundle of ice into his palm. "Put that over your eye first then on the side of you head and jaw. You're getting all swollen."

He did as she said watching her all the time as she perched gracefully on the ottoman at his feet. His gaze was so intense, so steady, that she could not help asking, "Can you see me without your spectacles?"

For a moment, he looked puzzled.

"They are only for reading."

"But you wear them all the time," she pointed out.

"I read a good deal."

She laughed a little at that and though she suspected he had no idea why, he chuckled too. A moment after, he winced.

"Head hurt?"

He nodded and Buffy leaned against the side of his knee so that she could comb her fingers through his hair, probing at the lump over his temple and trying to determine its seriousness. She did not intend it to be a caress, but he visibly relaxed at the touch: long limbs becoming splayed and boneless, eyelids half-shut. It might have been the first time she had ever seen him so tranquil though on closer inspection she realized that was probably more due to complete exhaustion than any sudden change in his temperament.

"Sleepy?" she asked. His eyes were red-rimmed and blood-shot, slightly unfocused; he looked not just sleepy but ready to pass out. Naturally, he tried to downplay this when he answered her.

"Only a bit tired." She was still running her fingers through his hair and to her complete surprise his hand reached up to cover hers as if he were afraid she might stop. As if she could stop.

She petted him softly and eventually he relaxed back, letting his hand drop from hers. He looked almost asleep, almost drunk, and she wondered for a moment if she had cast a spell on him.

Her eyes followed the rise and fall of his chest, the dip of his Adam's apple when he swallowed. That soft throat. How easy it would have been for Drusilla to take the opportunity that she, Buffy, had provided. How easy it would be for her to take the next opportunity—or the next, or the one after that—to rip open his throat and drain his life.

"William, promise me something?"

He barely stirred. "Yes."

"Promise me you won't go out alone after dark anymore." His eyes opened at this, surprised and even a little amused. She added urgently, "There are all kinds of things happening in London…all kinds of evil people running around. It isn't safe. Promise me."

"If you wish. Of course I shall promise."

She leaned her head against his arm and shortly after, he gave a sleepy laugh. "What?"

"Only that it seems you worry for my safety as much as I worry for yours. I never realized women were so protective before."

She looked up surprised.

"Is that way you came back so suddenly…because you were worried about me?"

"Yes. I thought—I felt—somehow you must be in danger. That you were in need of me." He smiled self-consciously. "I suppose that sounds very silly to you."

She kissed his bruised cheek tenderly.

"No. It doesn't sound silly at all," she whispered.

She brushed the damp curls off his forehead and he leaned his head into her hand, allowed his eyes to go half-closed and dreamy once again.

"How's that eye doing?"

"A good deal better. Thank you." He nuzzled at her palm as it passed over his cheek.

It amazed her. How could someone be so hungry for touch and yet so insistent upon denying himself the best part of it? She leaned a little forward.

"William, can we talk about what happened before you left do you think?"

He was awake in an instant, flushed and stuttering anxiously. "We already spoke. Must we go over it again? That is—should we not just forget about it?"

"Do you want to forget about it?" she asked him. "Do you think you can you forget about it?"

"Ye—es." There was a hesitance in his voice. Still he insisted, "At the very least I feel we should not allude to it again. It is not seemly—it is not—"

Her hand moved from his knee to the front of his rumpled, soiled shirt. His warm thin chest and thumping heart beneath the stretch of her palm, she went on, low: "I know it embarrassed you, but did it make you feel at all nice? Did you like my touching you…even a little bit?"

A foggy look came to his eye at the mention of her touch and he looked, for moment, so dazed and tempted that her breath caught.

"It felt—"

"What?" she whispered.

He was slumped in his chair, legs spread so that she, on her low seat, sat almost in between them. Six inches from his crotch, five buttons and a lapse of self-control from taking that growing evidence of his arousal into her mouth—the eroticism of the pose seemed to occur to him belatedly and he pulled himself upright, shaking his head slowly.

"I don't think…I cannot…"

"It's all right," she said. She drew back, gently pulled the ice from his eye and repositioned it to the knot on his temple.

"Hold it here for a while."

He nodded dumbly and obeyed.

She didn't touch him again.

* * *

* * *

They sat in the parlor together until the ice melted and the throbbing of his head became merely a dull ache. It was she who drew away first. It was so late, she said, and he looked so tired. He _was_ tired. He was so tired that the night was taking on the hazy, surreal quality of a dream—so tired his mind did not seem to be functioning properly at all. It could not have been. Because how else to explain what he did next?

He saw Elizabeth to her room as a gentleman should, there was nothing strange about that. What was strange—what was wrong—was the fact that once she went into her room and closed the door behind her he still could not bring himself to move away from it. Instead, he stood there on and on, his fingertips lightly brushing the smooth wood. He closed his eyes and in his mind, he could almost see her there. He could see her stepping out of her slippers and unbuttoning the coat that covered her nightdress. He thought he could imagine how she looked in that frail, feminine garment, the fabric so thin and delicate one could see every tender curve of her body—and for a moment, for an agonizing moment he could not breathe. The soft rustle of her body settling into the feather mattress, the overwhelming temptation of it—

_Stop it,_ he told himself angrily. _It isn't something to be thought about._

Yet even as he forced himself away from the door and walked the corridor to his own rooms he could think of nothing else. He felt as if he were in the pull of laudanum: stupefied and struggling, addicted. She knew how to do something no lady should know how to do. She enjoyed doing it—

_Yet she is a lady,_ he reminded himself. _She is. She must be._

Yet even in their repetition, the words seemed to lose some meaning. A lady. What was a lady precisely? Miss Underwood was considered a lady and a lady of some standing in London. Yet she was cold and aloof, taken more with herself and her reputation than anything else. Strange that he had not noticed that until recently. Miss Summers—Elizabeth—was so different. She was like a creature from a different world, a lovely, fiery creature. Whatever the others said of her character (and he refused to believe any of it) the content of her heart was good. He knew this. He had seen her stay awake all night caring for his mother; he had seen her give her last coins to the dirty beggar children that accosted them on the streets. Did that not make her a lady? It must.

He entered his own room and began to undress. Although the air was chill, he felt flushed and strange. He thought he could still feel her soft fingers in his hair. He thought he could see her green eyes in the dark; hear her whispering.

_Did you like my touching you even a little bit?_

_Yes,_ he thought desperately. _God, yes._

And it was wrong.

He lay down upon his bed with a sigh. When he closed his eyes, he could not quite banish the image of her seated on his lap and nestling into him, pleasuring him not just with her hands but the feel of her body, the scent of her flesh; the sheer, overwhelming beauty of her. She was—

_Doing things no lady should know how to do._

An automatic thought and one to which he could not quite become reconciled. Immediately he began to argue with himself.

_But it was for me. That beauty, that act—they were_ mine—_not meant for any eyes, any hands, any body but my own._

He felt a rush of shameful, possessive satisfaction at the thought—then just as quickly banished it. Wrong, still wrong. But—

_Oh, God. How can I resist her?_

And the desire took hold of him like a fever, and did not let go.

* * *


	23. Chapter TwentyTwo

**

Chapter Twenty-Two

**

Amazingly enough, William's face seemed to look even worse the following morning than it had the night before. Then again, perhaps it was merely the bright morning sunshine streaming through the dining room windows and illuminating every cut, every bruise and every swollen place on his face that made him look so terrible. At any rate, Buffy winced when she saw him, and Anne, who after all had not been prepared for this the night before, shrieked.

"William!" she said in horrified tones. "What on earth has happened to you?"

He edged into the room slowly, and Buffy could see from the way he eased down into his chair that his ribs were causing him pain. Damn it. She should have made him put ice on them, too.

"Nothing happened," he said softly and proceeded to divert her with the same story he had given Buffy the night before. However, unlike Buffy, Anne seemed to see nothing odd in the excuse of falling on ice; or if she did, she kept her suspicions to herself.

When it became clear that his mother was not going to dispute the story, William quickly changed the subject.

"What of things here?" he asked. "Has everything gone well in my absence?"

Anne shot a glance at Buffy, who looked away guiltily.

"We—ell…" she said slowly. "Things have been rather fine, I think. Although, we certainly did miss you while you were away."

"How has your cough been? Has Dr. Gull been looking in on you as I asked?"

"Oh, yes. He has been quite attentive. And the new syrup seems to be working very well, doesn't it, Elizabeth? I do not think I have had a night of unbroken rest since the doctor prescribed it."

"That is wonderful." He was obviously struggling to keep his eyes from falling to Buffy, and neither woman failed to notice it. His mother looked a little exasperated and a lot amused by this lack of attentiveness to her. She took a sip of tea and then threw an incongruous—and not entirely innocent—smile at her son.

"Well, we are certainly pleased to have you with us. Aren't we, Elizabeth? And a few days early at that. Was everything fine at home?"

"Quite all right," he answered. "This year's seeds have been bought, and since some of the tenants are quite behind on their rents I negotiated with them to forgive the money past due if they would do the planting free of charge."

"What does that mean, 'free of charge'?" asked Buffy. She meant it for an idle question, but suddenly both the Hartleys were staring at her in surprise. As a rule, women were not interested in the mechanics of business. Nor were they encouraged to be. Still, William seemed more than happy to explain it to her.

"Generally the tenants work our lands as well as their own," he explained. "They receive a share of the profits for their labor, and we don't have to bother with hiring farm hands, so this benefits us both. However, it was a poor growing season this past year, and they hadn't a great deal to harvest from their fields or ours. A good many of them could not pay the rent, or they could pay only part of it. It was not their fault they had not enough money. I told them I would forgive their debts if they would forego their share of the profits from this year's crops. Of course, they will still be earning income from the harvest of their own rented land. If all goes well, they will earn enough from this to pay their rents and provide for themselves."

"That was very nice of you."

He flushed and looked pleased. "Of course, I could not allow all the men to do that; some were not trustworthy enough. As for the rest, I am sure they will do very well."

"So, after the crops are harvested what do you do?"

"It depends. Most of it we ship to London to sell. Some of the grains are kept back in order to feed horses and livestock."

"Who does the selling? Do you?"

"No." He smiled. "Not I. There is a hired man that handles most of the negotiations with buyers. Though of course I have the final word on prices and such, I'm afraid I do not enjoy business matters enough to pursue them full time."

Buffy took a bite of her toast. "Do you make a lot of money at it?"

Though she did not realize it, Buffy had just broken two rules of etiquette. She had spoken with her mouth full and asked him a question about money. William didn't seem to mind or even to notice, but Anne frowned.

"Elizabeth!" Her voice was stern. "I don't think you should be bothering him with such questions. Business matters are no concern for a lady."

Buffy sighed.

_So much for showing an interest in his work. Are women allowed to have a brain at all in this stupid society?_

"She may ask questions if she wants," William said mildly. "There is no harm in it, and certainly she is bright enough to understand."

"I am sure I did not mean to insinuate she lacked the intelligence to comprehend," answered Anne. "However, dear, you must concede that a lady should not trouble her mind in such matters as business. It is not her place to do so."

"She _is_ a lady," snapped William. Suddenly, he looked very annoyed. "And she may ask all the questions she likes, on this subject or any other."

Buffy was shocked. She had never heard him speak to his mother that way. However, Anne seemed neither surprised nor offended. Rather, she looked at her son with something akin to pity.

After a moment's awkward silence, Buffy reached across the table and plucked at William's sleeve. "You're not eating." Her tone was determinedly cheerful, and his face relaxed into a smile.

"I—I haven't much of an appetite this morning."

"You _never_ have much of an appetite," she answered playfully. "Now, quit staring at me and eat!"

Dutifully, he picked up his fork. However, his eyes remained on her for the rest of the meal.

* * *

* * *

"It seems that she has caused you a bit of trouble."

Slowly, William looked up from the book he was reading. His mother was staring at him steadily, her knitting needles lying idle in her lap. Elizabeth was upstairs; she had an appointment with the dressmaker. They were alone in the parlor.

He tilted his head at his mother, carefully scrutinizing her face. "I am not certain I know what you mean."

It was a careful answer, and both of them knew it. Anne looked at him sadly.

"Miss Summers, of course. Elizabeth. Is she not the reason for your injuries?"

Had he not been so shocked, William might have thought of something to say, some excuse. No, not an excuse. An _explanation_. However, she had caught him utterly off guard, and he could think of nothing—_nothing_—except the bald, terrible truth.

"I suppose one could say she is, though only by virtue of the fact that some of our so-called society 'gentlemen' have been making vulgar insinuations of her."

"William—"

"It is wrong of them to do so," he interrupted. "And I had no choice but to put a stop to it. It was not Miss Summers fault; she has done nothing to draw such malevolence."

"Hasn't she?"

Anne's tone was kind, but it angered William that she should question his beloved. He lashed out at her. "No, she has not!"

"Then, you don't consider that her behavior in society has, perhaps, attracted the wrong sort of interest? That she might have done things to make people believe she is not quite a lady?"

"How could you even suggest—" His voice was shaking with rage.

"Sweetheart, you haven't any idea the things that have gone on in your absence—the trouble Elizabeth has gotten herself into."

"Trouble—"

"Two night's past she left the house quite late. So late in fact, that all of the servants were already in their beds. She said she went for a walk on the street in front of the house, although it was quite cold and I am not sure what possessed her to do such a thing. Regardless, her behavior _did_ attract the wrong sort of attention that night, and she was assaulted."

"Assaulted—?" His hands gripped the arms of the chair, and for a moment, he started to propel himself out of it. Only Anne's firm hand kept him from panicking completely.

Is she all right? Was she—did he—"

"Thankfully, not. That is—she insists he did not. She says he was merely trying to rob her, and that he did not succeed. However, William…she is a beautiful young lady, and there are so many immoral men in this city. She might easily have been hurt. Her boisterous behavior is attracting their attention as well as society's scorn. For some time, I have been aware that things are not well for you…that your affections for her are not favorably looked upon in London. That does not matter, so long as you are content with your lot. However, those same behaviors that you find vivacious and charming are bound to lead her to some harm. She _must_ learn to behave like a lady at all times, so as not to attract their attention."

He knew in his heart that his mother was right. Elizabeth was lovely and perfect, yet her natural exuberance was dangerous in a city such as this. Also—

_She had been outside in her nightdress._

William felt suddenly ill at the thought. Sitting in the parlor the night before, she had told him that she was outside because she heard a noise. At the time, he had been too exhausted and distracted to take much notice of the story. Now he cringed at the recollection. How dangerous of her to explore strange noises on her own! At night, at that, and dressed in only her coat and a frail sleeping garment.

He thought back to the promise he made her, not to venture into the city at night alone. Did her troubles trigger that sudden concern for _him?_ What exactly happened two nights ago?

He sank back into his chair, weak with fear and with anger. "I—I shall speak with her, of course," he muttered. "We are very fortunate no great harm came to her. I will explain it to her. She mustn't—"

"William, she needs more than just an explanation!" Anne's voice was loving, but hard. He understood she must have been greatly worried by Elizabeth's attack. She continued, "You must be firmer with her in the future. You have been so indulgent of her, as of late. She has gotten into the habit of doing what she likes, and saying what she likes. It is not ladylike, and is sure to cause her some trouble. Not to make mention of—" She hesitated.

He looked up from the floor.

"What?"

"You seem so very…fond…of her. And she of you. I assume that you hope this affection will lead you to marriage. Yet if you leave things as they are, you will find yourself with a willful and disrespectful wife, full of habits that must be whipped out of her with more or less discomfort and trouble, later on."

Whipped out of her. He flinched at the mere mention of it. Yet he knew what his mother said was correct. It was a man's responsibility to ensure that his wife was decorous and a credit to him. It was a man's privilege to achieve those means by any way he saw fit. Many men hit their wives; he knew that. Even his own father had been known to discipline his mother when she was disobedient. Never cruelly and she had not seemed much disturbed by it. But…

He could not imagine handling Elizabeth's soft, white flesh with anything but tenderness. He could not imagine replacing the laughter and love in her eyes with tears.

"I would never…"

He did not finish, but Anne smiled sympathetically and he knew she understood. She put a hand to his knee and patted him gently. "You won't have to, dear. Not if you begin straight away. Not if you are quite assertive with her. It is for her well-being that I tell you this. Her _joie de vivre_ is charming, but it might well lead to her being hurt. If you speak with her now…"

"If I speak with her now…" he echoed hollowly.

"…you won't have to be concerned about her in the future."

* * *

* * *

Thank God, that was finally finished.

Buffy waited until Mrs. Simms had gathered her sewing basket and departed. Then, she jumped off the cushioned footstool that she had been standing on while the seamstress basted a hem, and she moved toward the door.

Almost immediately, she jumped back in surprise.

William was standing in the doorway.

She gasped and then laughed. "God, you startled me! We've got to stop meeting this way."

He did not smile, and hers quickly faded.

"William, what's wrong?"

He looked dazed, a little uneasy. "I was—I—I wanted—"

"What?"

He stepped into the room, moving so suddenly that Buffy had to jump to the side so he wouldn't run into her. Abruptly, he pulled up and turned on his heel to face her.

"Why were you outside, last night? It was so late. Why were you outside, wearing—?"

"Wearing _what?_" She was completely baffled. He blushed.

"Wearing—wearing your—your—sleeping—"

Although he did not finish the sentence, finally it dawned on her what he was trying to say. Her nightdress. He wanted to know why she was running around outside in the middle of the night without any decent clothing. A valid question, but one she had no idea how to answer.

_You lie enough as it is. For once, why not tell him the truth?_

Revolutionary thought, that. Since nothing better came to mind—and since she was in fact growing quite tired of lying to him—she decided to tell him the truth. Part of the truth, anyway.

"I told you why, William. I heard a noise. I had my window open, and—"

"Why?" His voice was so soft she could barely hear him. She moved in a bit closer.

"What?'

"Why was your window open?"

Then she knew. Like a blow to the head, she knew that Anne had told him. Buffy wanted to be angry with her, but she could not quite manage it. Perhaps because she knew that for better or for worse, Anne had only told him because she cared. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and sighed.

"I have a feeling you already know why."

He swallowed and looked away.

"Tell me about it."

"About—"

"The assault. Tell me about the assault. Tell me why you were outside in the predawn cold. My mother said that you told her you were taking a walk. Is that true? Were you—?"

It was odd. The truth was so hard to muster, yet once spoken it made her felt better. Buffy drew a breath and pulled her shoulders back, mentally preparing herself to do more of it.

"No." She said it softly, simply.

"Then, why? Why in God's name would you be out there? Tell me!"

_Sweetheart, you have no idea how badly I want to…_

"I—I don't know if I can tell you. I don't know if you'll understand—"

"Perhaps not, but I implore you to try."

It was on the tip of her tongue, the truth. It had a bitter taste, coppery like blood. She thought that if she could just spit it out, then everything would be all right between them. But how could she spit it out? How could she burden him with all that?

"I was worried about you," she said finally. It was only part of the truth, but it was all she felt she could give him. "I was worried about you, and…and for some reason I thought that I could fix it…"

"Fix what, Elizabeth?"

"Whatever it was that went wrong between us. Whatever it was that left me thinking you were somehow in danger." She looked him in the eye, her words growing stronger. "I did lie to your mother, William. I wasn't just walking up and down in front of the house. I was halfway to Mayfair, on foot. I had walked all night. I was looking for…something."

His eyes never left hers; she had him spellbound.

"Looking for what?" he whispered.

"For the thing that was going to hurt you."

She thought that he would question her further along those lines, but he did not. Instead, he focused on the attack.

"What happened while you were walking? A man came upon you…"

"Yes."

"Was he trying to rob you?"

"No."

A single word, but she knew from the pained look on his face that William understood implicitly. He clenched his jaw.

"He wanted to interfere with you?"

"Yes."

He couldn't seem to look at her, then. He turned his face away.

"Did he succeed?"

"No. I fought him off."

He exhaled deeply, and she could almost feel his relief. When he turned back to face her she could see it—so profound as to be almost painful. She traced the edge of his lapel with her fingertips.

"It's all right, William"

He shook his head. "If something had happened to you…if something did…"

She leaned up to kiss his bruised face. William dropped his head a little lower, nuzzling at her nose and her cheek. Then lower still, until his lips finally found hers.

"Nothing happened," she murmured into his mouth. "Nothing…"

He made a soft sound, an expression of relief. But he did not stop kissing her. Time after time, his mouth captured hers. They were soft kisses but passionate: his tongue laving against her bottom lip, barely seeking entry into her willing mouth. Tenderly, he caressed her, explored her. And she, for once willing to relinquish control, let him.

Slowly, the kisses grew deeper and he dared more, touching his tongue to hers. Lightly at first and then deeper, his mouth opened wide and hungry. When she tightened her arms around his neck, he pushed his body in eagerly and pressed it against her.

By now, they were both panting, and she could feel the hard length of his erection against her hip. She wanted to put her hand to it, but she knew better than to try.

It was a good thing. After another moment, he pulled away.

"I—we must return to the parlor," he whispered guiltily. "Mother will think—"

She nodded and touched his cheek tenderly. When he offered his arm to lead her away, she took it.

_Restraint,_ she thought as they descended the staircase. _I can do this. I can._

But she wasn't sure if she really believed it or not.

* * *

* * *

The library door was slightly ajar, the room warm with the glow and the heat of the hearth. William was sitting on the sagging divan in the middle of the room, slumped down in an informal pose that, for him, was quite unusual. This position had more to do with the throbbing pain in his chest than any desire for relaxation.

Elizabeth knocked on the doorframe shyly. When he twisted his head around to look at her, she gave him a small wave.

"Hi."

"Hello."

"Do you mind if I come in?" There was hesitance in her voice, even a little embarrassment. He knew that she was thinking about their last encounter in this room.

"Of course, I do not mind," he said. The answer, while immediate, was a little self-conscious. He was thinking about that night, too.

William straightened up when she stepped around to sit next to him, but he flinched as he did so. Elizabeth noticed this immediately.

"Still hurt?" She touched the side of his chest lightly.

"Only just a bit."

He winced at the pressure of her fingertips, yet he could not quite bring himself to pull away. Her touch was so gentle, so loving. If it was uncomfortable on his injured ribs…well, that was but a small price to pay.

"Would you like me to get you some ice?"

Her eyes were so soft he wanted to get lost in them. He slumped again, pushing his chest down until it was beneath the full flat of her hand. He couldn't help himself.

"No…" he whispered in answer to her question. "Truly, I will be fine."

Without lifting her hand, she slid it over to the middle of his chest. Her fingers rested lightly against the place where his shirt buttons began, below his open collar.

"Do you think they could be broken?" she asked.

"I don't think so." He shifted, trying to ease the ache that was building between his legs. The response to her nearness—her hands—

"Can I look to see?"

He felt shocked by her request. It was as indecent for him to expose his chest, as it would be for her to expose hers. Then again, she had put her hands on him. She had done things no other lady would do. Still, it was wrong of him even to think of it. Certainly, it was out of the question to do it.

Then why did he say yes?

She undid his buttons slowly, all the while searching his eyes for some sign he might be changing his mind. He didn't change his mind. Although embarrassed and ashamed, he could not bring himself to stop her.

He did not want to stop her.

William closed his eyes when he felt the edges of his shirt part. She eased them further open, and he felt her slide a hand underneath, prodding gently at the puffy bruises on his ribcage.

"Can you breathe okay?"

He couldn't speak; he nodded.

"I think it's all right then," she whispered. Her voice was as soft as her eyes, as soft as the hands that were now caressing the uninjured parts of his torso.

He arched his back, leaning into the fingers that were rubbing his shoulders and his neck, stroking a line down the center of his chest to trace the contours of his abdomen. The ache had become a need so powerful he felt almost maddened by it. He twisted his lower body, trying to hide the dreadfully apparent bulge in his trousers.

Seemingly oblivious to his predicament, Elizabeth leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the bare flesh of his stomach. He gasped at the unexpected pleasure of it, also at the shame. She did not stop, but continued kissing her way up his belly—up his chest and his neck—until she reached his mouth. She was between his legs now, rubbing her pelvis in languid circles against his erection. Her lips hovered over his.

"Do you like it when I touch you?" she whispered.

_"Yes."_ He was panting. Pleading.

"Then I'll keep doing it."

One by one, she undid his fly buttons and reached her hand inside…

* * *

* * *

William bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, trying desperately to stifle the groan as it tore from his throat. It didn't work. He stood leaning forward, one hand braced against the bedroom wall and the other wrapped around his erect member. He climaxed with such intensity that he felt almost sick with the release. When it was over, he was trembling.

He had been fighting the urge all afternoon, sitting in the parlor and looking at her. She was so lovely that day, wearing his favorite dress—simple and perfect, the color of claret—and on her wrist was his claim to her. Her hair was pulled into an elegant twist at the back of her head, but some of it had escaped, so that several loose, curling tendrils followed the curve of her slender neck. She was so beautiful, so desirable. The fact that she was sitting only ten feet from him and he could not touch her was maddening. Hours on end sitting there—_wanting_ her—

Finally succumbing to the desire was only a fleeting pleasure for him. When he came back to his senses to find himself standing there, covered in his own spendings and holding his softening penis in his hand, he felt mortified. Those thoughts he had of her during that appalling act. That sordid fantasy—

He bowed his head, allowing his brow to rest against the cool wallpaper as he slowly pulled his hand from his trousers. There was an ache in his chest; he felt almost like weeping.

"What is _wrong_ with me?"

But from the darkness of the empty room, there came no answer.

* * *


	24. Chapter TwentyThree

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Elizabeth was late to table the following morning. In fact, she was so late that William and his mother finally started the meal without her, the latter silently disapproving, the former confused and fretful.

William felt drained that morning. Again, there had been an almost sleepless night, hours spent tossing in his bed, fretting over things done and undone. All the mistakes he had made; all those vile acts. He was exhausted as he sat there, but he could not show it. He must eat his food and make ready to leave. He had to see the solicitor that morning, to discuss his agreement with the estate tenants. He was a man, and men were not supposed to show weakness, or weariness. Men were supposed to be strong and assertive.

This morning, he felt neither. He felt weak and hungry, though not for the food the footman placed before him. The little carriage clock on the mantle ticked away the minutes, and he counted each one of them. Elizabeth had not come down yet, and he must leave soon. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. He wanted to see her, of course. He wanted it so badly it was almost a torment to him. Yet to see her would be a torment also. To see her—to look at her from across the table and not be able to touch her—would be nothing less than pure torture. To say nothing of the guilt he felt. The guilt from the night before—

He did not want to see her, he decided firmly. She would not be downstairs in time to see him off, and he was glad of it. It would give him the entire morning to regroup, to figure out how he could face her. It was a good thing, not to see her.

Why, then, did his eyes move so frequently to the doorway?

Anne was watching him without his realizing it, and with the keenness of a mother's eyes, she saw everything. She waited until it was evident that he would not say anything voluntarily and then she put down her fork.

"Did you speak with Elizabeth yet, William?"

He flinched at the question. Of course, he had not spoken with her. Aside from questioning her about the terrible circumstances of her assault, he had not broached the subject of her behavior at all. Because in truth—and despite the sense he saw in his mother's advice—he did not want to change Elizabeth. Her deportment might have been incorrect in London's eyes, but he found it charming, endearing, and the thought of turning her into just another prim London society lady was almost intolerable to him. He loved her just as she was.

Now he toyed with his fork, turning it over in his hand. "I spoke with her," he said slowly. "I spoke with her—briefly—last night."

"Well?"

"She understands the dangers of London now. She will be more cautious in the future."

Anne hesitated. "And her behavior…?" she asked finally.

Her behavior. Her behavior was wrong, a danger to her. He knew that. He did. And he meant to be firm with her about it, to tell her that she must never leave the house alone again—most certainly not at night—and that she must cease to be so trusting of strangers. He meant to tell her not as a request but a command; he meant be assertive and his tone would broach no argument.

His attempt had not been very successful.

It was only that she was so lovely, so soft. How could he say things that she would not understand? Things that would hurt her. She would think he wanted to change her and that she was not enough just as she was when in fact nothing could be further from the truth. She was perfect. It was the rest of the world that needed changing.

"Her behavior," he began slowly. And the hot, possessive anger that seemed always at the ready these days suddenly flared. "I see nothing wrong in her behavior!"

"William, surely you don't mean that. Her lack of decorum led to her attack. Does that not bother you?"

"Of course it bothers me!" He smacked the tabletop with his open palm so that the flatware jumped. "Do you honestly think I could so easily forget the danger she put herself in? She might have been subject to further harm, even death. I assure you that I addressed the affair with her last evening, and this matter is now settled. She will not venture out onto the streets alone anymore."

"But William—"

He threw down his napkin. Still angry, but somehow feeling the unaccountable urge to cry. He pushed his chair back so quickly it almost tipped over as he stood.

"I cannot discuss this any longer. I shall be late…"

And he left her sitting there.

* * *

* * *

"William."

He turned so quickly that Buffy knew she had startled him. He was still wearing his overcoat, although it was unbuttoned and half-hanging from one shoulder, as if he had started to take it off and then thought the better of it. One hand rested lightly on the library door as though he were preparing to escape into it. There was a tense, unhappy look to his face, and she knew that he was still thinking about the conversation with his mother. A conversation Buffy should not have overheard but had anyway.

"Are you all right?"

He frowned, confused by the question. She added in explanation, "I tried to catch you before you left this morning, but you were in such a hurry. I—I overheard what you said in the dining room—what you both said—"

William colored at that. "Elizabeth, please. I—"

"I didn't mean to listen in," she interrupted. "I was just—I was late to breakfast. When I got to the door of the dining room the two of you were arguing; I—I couldn't just walk in—"

He sighed and his hand dropped from the doorknob. "You cannot know how sorry I am that you had to hear it."

"No—" She put her hand on his arm, a clumsy gesture of comfort. "No, William. I'm sorry. You've been so good to me, and I've caused you so much trouble. All I ever do is cause you trouble—"

"Don't say that!" He sounded more weary than angry, and looking closely into his downcast blue eyes, Buffy could tell that something more was bothering him than just an argument with his mother. She could read him like that. Read him like a book. It was just that sometimes, like now, she couldn't understand what it was that she was reading. As if she had a learning disability when it came to him—maybe when it came to feelings in general.

Still, she tried.

"You look so tired. Didn't you sleep well?" She rubbed lightly at his sleeve when she spoke, and he leaned into her hand—a gesture, a feeling, that was so much easier to read than the other one.

"Not very well," he admitted.

"Why?"

The blush in his cheeks darkened. Blue eyes flicked to the door, and he said slowly, "I—I met with Dr. Wright earlier to see about a new set of spectacles, also with the solicitor. He is drawing up contracts for the tenants to sign."

_Okay…that came out of left field._

"Are you feeling all right?" she persisted. "I mean, the reason you couldn't sleep—"

"—is something I do not care to discuss at the moment."

This time, William did reach for the doorknob, twisting it behind his back and pushing so that the door almost appeared to fall open of its own accord. When he walked into the room, it was without a word to Buffy. She might have seen the gesture as dismissive—probably, he intended it to be—except that he left the door open in his wake, as if in the unconscious desire for her to follow him.

She did.

He made a wide and very pointed circuit around the armchair and parked himself instead on the shabby divan; Buffy, however, remained standing.

"I won't bother you," she said softly. "I just—I wanted to tell you that overhearing what your mother said about me this morning, it got me to thinking. Probably, I am a little bit lacking when it comes to good manners. I never really thought about that much before, but I am."

William said nothing in reply, but from beneath the fringe of his gold-colored lashes, his eyes locked on hers, unwavering and responsive. She knew he was listening.

"It comes from living in California around all those cowboys so long, I guess," she added, laughing at her own lame joke. "But I'm going to try to be better—I'm going to be better. In fact, I'm going to dazzle you guys with my ladylike respectability."

A small smile tugged at the left corner of his mouth. Encouraged by the success, Buffy went on: "You think I'm joking, but I'm not. When I set my mind to do something, it's as good as done. I'm stubborn like that. And I _can _do this. I really can. I can change—"

The smile disappeared.

"I don't want that," he said quietly.

"You don't want what?" She was confused.

"Change."

His arms went around her waist so suddenly that she almost gasped from the surprise of it. He leaned forward in his chair, and because she was still standing and he was at the level for it, he buried his face in her stomach. It was an odd and strangely intimate gesture. She could feel his hands fisting into the fabric at the back of her dress, his moist breath warming her belly as he murmured, "If I could take you away—if I could—"

"Take me away?" she echoed. The press of his head—the distressed clutching of his fingers—the almost pained look on his face—all of it was so baffling. Yet at the same time it was heady, all the power she held over him, over his happiness. She rested her hands lightly on his bowed head.

"What do you mean, 'take me away?'"

"If I could take you to the country—to the estate—to where no one would bother you, you could be just as you like. Just as I _like _you to be. But here—"

"Here—?"

"There are so many bloody fools, so many malicious people who would take the most meaningless gesture and turn it to something vulgar." He turned his head up just a bit, just enough so that he could look at her. "If you were to come to some harm—"

"So, I'll just work hard on being like everyone else. Then you won't have to worry." The words sounded hard, but her tone was gentle. Her fingers played lightly in his hair.

"You could never be like the rest of them—nor would I want you to be. I do not want to turn you into a sheep, and I care nothing of your lack of knowledge in society matters. It is only that you _must not _venture out alone if you are to be safe in London. Do you understand? It is my job to protect you—"

It was his job to protect her. Buffy felt a strange thrill at those words. She didn't need protecting, but she wanted it. She wanted to be so important to someone, so treasured and fussed over. She'd never had it before, not from any man. She promised him she would not take unnecessary risks. She would not go out by herself.

He stood, then. She thought for a giddy moment that he was going to kiss her; she could see that he was thinking of it, that he wanted it. Yet unlike the previous evening, he did not indulge in his desire. Instead, he lifted one of his hands to her cheek, caressed her with both deep affection and a sense of restraint.

Buffy wanted to kiss his bruised cheekbone, his eyelids, his soft mouth, but she was determined not to push him beyond the realms of what made him comfortable. Not again. Instead, she covered his hand with her own, and turning her head slightly, pressed her lips into his palm.

"I love you. Do you know that?"

He closed his eyes and smiled in a way that told her that nothing she could have said—or done—would have pleased him more.

"I do," he murmured. His voice was low and dreamy. "I do."

* * *

* * *

Although William insisted that it was not necessary, Buffy, true to her word, made a valiant attempt to improve her manners. He grew angry with her when she worked on her grammar and diction (The way you speak is lovely. Why must you change it?), so she worked instead on improving her table manners, her conversational skills. She made rapid progress, and although he swore otherwise, Buffy knew this made life easier for William. For one thing, it got Anne off his back.

If he was not willing to be firm with her, as Anne had suggested, William determined to keep her safe in other ways. When he was home, he relentlessly dogged her footsteps, recording each of her movements with the steadfast dedication of a private detective. Buffy didn't really mind this; she enjoyed the extra time spent with him. In a way, it even amused her, this sudden resolve to become her personal bodyguard. As if this were not enough, he decided bribery might be in order. With increasing frequency, he returned from his morning work with his coat pockets bulging with packages. He gave her books and perfume, jewelry and little decorative knickknacks for her room. None of it was proper, and he always presented them to her in certain amount of secrecy so that Anne would not know. There was always a tinge of embarrassment on his face, as well, as if he were afraid she would refuse them.

She never did, although the first time she saw the horse, she was actually very tempted to. Actually, it was not a _real _horse. It was a Connemara pony, a little dapple-gray creature that came complete with sidesaddle and tack. The idea was that he would teach her to ride and then she could accompany him out on horseback as a way of amusement. It was a decision he would eventually come to regret. Yet that was an agony far ahead of him, unforeseeable as he stood in the sunny stable yard that February morning.

Buffy regretted it the moment she laid eyes on the beast. She had never been one of those little girls who begged for a pony at Christmas. Nor had the desire for one materialized in her adulthood, or even since coming here. The horses that pulled the carriage were little more than the engine of an automobile, so little did she consider them. Only when she watched William ride the bay, natural and upright in his seat, did she see any beauty in an equine.

"Huh uh," she said firmly, when first he suggested it. "Forget it. I'm not getting on that animal."

"But why?" asked William. For some unaccountable reason he was laughing, which fact only annoyed her further.

"Because I value my neck way too much to break it falling off that thing."

"You won't fall. She is very gentle and will take good care of you."

"I don't care how gentle she is. I can't even drive a _car, _for God's sake. There is no way I'm going to be able to figure out how to steer that thing."

"You won't have to. Matthew put the leading rein on her. I will be completely in control; all you need do is sit very tall and straight in the saddle."

"One of the stirrups is missing."

He followed her gaze to the right side of the little leather saddle.

"It is a sidesaddle, sweetheart. It is meant to have only one stirrup." He paused. "What is a car?"

"Okay, do you want to talk about cars, or do you want to show me how to get on this stupid thing?" Buffy asked quickly, hoping to distract him from the question and save her from answering it. It worked. Of course, it also meant that she had to get on the horse.

In truth, it was not as bad as she had first feared. Although her skirts were uncomfortably tight when she bent her legs that way (William said she must have a riding habit made), she felt quite secure in the saddle. In addition, that first day she did not even have to worry about steering, because he controlled the horse. It was only later, when she felt confident in her seat at walk, trot, and canter that he gently placed the reins into her hand and directed her in their use. In a matter of a few days after this lesson, she was competent enough that he took her out on the streets.

It quickly became evident that his desire for her to ride was merely another manifestation of his desire to be alone with her. They went out when the afternoons were fair. He took her to the parks and as she improved, even on long rides out of the city. She made a pretty picture in her dark green riding habit, the same shade as her eyes, its skirt flowing elegantly down the horse's side. William watched her as much as he watched the road ahead. He praised her hands and her seat, completely overlooking the awkward way she handled her whip. He would not teach her to gallop or jump for fear she might fall and injure herself.

Buffy cared little for the pony—it was as smelly as it was pretty, also quite willful—but she came to love the rides. Alone in the clear, cold sunshine, they rode abreast so that they could talk to each other. Sometimes they stopped in a field and sat together on a log while the horses grazed. Occasionally, in times like these, he forgot himself and kissed her.

Anne did not exactly approve of their jaunts—she felt they should have a chaperone. Yet she said very little about them. After all, Buffy's manners had greatly improved; likewise, William's temper. She was clever enough to know when not to rock the boat.

On the days they did not ride, William took Buffy out into the city. They did not go to plays or concerts—nowhere they might run into Charles Archer and encounter more ugliness. Instead, he took her to poetry recitals and book readings, horse races and even a wild animal show where tigers jumped through hoops, and a man wrestled a bear. He took her to the shops, urging her to tell him what she wanted so that he could buy it for her. She never would, but he watched carefully for her reactions. The things she liked he bought for her, without any regard to cost at all. She learned to temper her expressions so that he could not so easily read them. She didn't need gifts in order to love him, and she wanted to show him that. She loved him for who he was. She adored him.

Unfortunately, when the perfect opportunity to prove that to him arrived, she botched it.

Badly.

* * *


	25. Chapter TwentyFour

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

The months of February and March slowly crept by. The weather warmed considerably, although it was by no means _warm_ to Buffy, the California girl. Still, there was a stretch of good weather, the promise of spring in the bright sunshine and newly-melted snow. There was a stretch of peace, as well. Of intense, short-lived happiness. Life, once again, slipped into its comfortable routine. This time, nothing intruded on the easiness of it, because she was careful not to let it. Her manners were so impeccable, not even Anne could complain. In view of other people, she was really quite the lady, prim and Victorian. Alone, with William, it was quite different. With him, she could be herself.

Of course, despite her newfound propriety, there was still gossip among the servants. Gossip about Master William's bruises, which were by now gone. Gossip about Buffy, as well, because everyone knew by now that she was the reason William left so abruptly for the estate; also that she was the reason he returned in such haste. Naturally, they were curious about it. However, because they were so fond of William, they were discreet and said nothing within his hearing or Anne's. The more malicious gossip of the city, Buffy never even heard anymore. William was careful to protect her from it. For himself, he merely ignored it. The estimation of his class meant nothing to him now, less than nothing.

Still, life was not quite so easy for William, although naturally, he did not let on. And if his face sometimes looked white and strained, guilt etching lines into the skin around his eyes and brow, then Buffy never noticed it. She was deliriously happy, and he was happy enough. It was only that he could not possess all of her, that he could not take his fill of her, which burdened him. He could never fully possess her except in his fantasies, but then fantasies seemed something sordid, and he felt guilty for it.

Yet his struggle, like the cold weather, was drawing to its close.

* * *

* * *

William celebrated his birthday in late March. Actually, he did not particularly want to celebrate it. Being a man such things held little interest for him. Yet he had a doting mother who refused to let such a momentous occasion pass by unmarked. On that last day of the month, she ordered the kitchen to prepare all of his favorite dishes for dinner. She sent Buffy (properly chaperoned, of course) out to the shops to buy all manner of gifts for him. These gifts were from Anne but for one; Buffy used almost all of her little hoard of cash to buy him a first addition of _The Song of Hiawatha_. Already almost fifty years old, the leather-bound, gold-tooled book was in almost pristine condition. He already had a new edition copy, of course, as he had a copy of all volumes of poetry. But this was antique, beautiful, and she knew he would appreciate the thought put into the gift.

She gave it to him last of all. After the dinner, after the cake, after Anne had lavished him with gifts of ink stones and fountain pens, cravats and jackets, a pocket watch…after all this, Buffy gave him the book. It was unwrapped, the glinting gold leaf decorative enough in the flickering candlelight. He turned it over in his hands, stroked it lovingly with his fingertips like a mother caressing her child. When he finally looked up at Buffy, his eyes were wet.

"You—you purchased—" Soft, hoarse voice, blue eyes staring at her from across the floral centerpiece. So overcome by a single gift from her, when he had given her dozens.

"Do you like it?" she asked anxiously. "I thought—"

"Like it," he echoed in disbelief. "My sweetheart, it is lovely—wonderful. The nicest gift I ever—"

He shot a glance to his mother and fell into an abrupt silence. However, far from feeling hurt by the insinuation that her gifts did not measure up to Buffy's, Anne seemed touched by it. She patted Buffy's arm.

"Indeed, it is lovely. Beautiful. And first editions are so difficult to come by."

"That's what the man in the book shop said. He'd only gotten it in the day before, at some estate sale in Bath. There was another customer in the shop that could've paid more, but the owner gave it to me when I told him why I wanted it. He was very nice; he said 'who puts money before love?' Then, he told the man it had already been sold."

She looked over at William, grinning, expecting a comment on the pleasantness of the story. Instead, she saw him staring at the table, the book that lay on it. His eyes were full almost to the point of spilling over, and his brow was furrowed. He did not answer her, and Buffy knew he had not been paying attention.

Anne knew it, too, and when she saw the expression on her son's face, she cleared her throat softly. "You know…I am feeling rather tired. I hope the two of you will forgive me if I retire early this evening."

"Of course, we will. Good night," Buffy said. A trifle absently, because she was watching William. He was looking at the book.

Anne rose—"Good night"—and quietly let herself out of the dining room, closing the door after her.

The moment she was gone, Buffy was out of her chair. She passed around the side of the table to where he sat, quiet and unmoving. She put her arms around his shoulders.

"Hey," she whispered into his ear. "Don't be upset. It's all right."

"I am not upset," he answered hoarsely. "It is only that—"

"I know."

She kissed his cheek, stroked his hair. He had gotten his new spectacles a few days before; she pulled them off his face and laid them on the table so that she could wipe his eyes. Then, she merely stood there, slightly stooped and holding him.

"Look at you, all thirty-oneish," she murmured against his neck. "How does it feel?"

He smiled a little at that.

"Quite a venerable age, is it not? To play suitor to one such as yourself. I suppose I ought to be ashamed."

"Are you ashamed?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Good."

Again, she kissed his cheek. Only this time, he turned his head, met her lips with his own. It was a soft kiss, brief. Her arms tightened around him once it was over, and she kissed his ear before whispering into it.

"Was it a nice birthday?"

"Must you ask? You were here. Whenever I am with you…everything is perfect."

She blushed, flattered and pleased by this assessment. Still, she felt unworthy of such high esteem, not equal to it. To cover her awkwardness, she said lightly, "Did you get everything you wanted?"

To her shock, his answer was not in the affirmative.

"No," he said instead. "Not quite everything."

She laughed, gave him a little hug. "What more do you want?"

"You."

"But you already have me!"

He twisted in his chair so that he could look at her, and he took one of her wrists gently into his grasp.

"No," he whispered. His voice was low, husky and oddly intense. "No. I mean that I want you be with me always. I want you to be my wife."

"What?" She pulled her hand back in alarm. "What—?"

Quickly, he stood. His eyes had the same anxious look they held the night in the Underwood garden almost two months before. A lifetime before.

"Marry me," he said.

Buffy was in shock. She had no idea what to say. She knew this day was coming; she would have been blind not to see that it was coming. It was only that she had not expected it so soon. He moved closer, reaching for one of her hands and folding it gently between both of his own.

"I—I haven't a ring, but I shall get one. Any ring you want—anything you want—"

"William—"

"Please, I—I will be good to you. My love, you must know I will be good to you. I shall endeavor to be the perfect spouse; you will never want for anything—"

She wanted so badly to say yes. It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, in her heart to say it. Then, her brain—her stupid, know-it-all brain that knew nothing—spoke up and dashed her happiness like so much dandelion fluff, leaving it to float away, ghostlike, in the breeze.

_How can you promise him your life? How, when you don't know if you will be here for your entire life? How, when at any moment Willow might call you home?_

The odds of that are so slim, she argued with herself. If she hasn't brought me home in three months—

The voice in her head was shrill and as unrelenting as a dentist's drill.

_But she could. She could. Then, you would be a liar as well as a heartbreaker._

Other arguments as well, other good reasons that seemed not really good to her but practical. She was so young. A marriage meant children and responsibilities; she wasn't sure if she was ready for either. And she didn't know how to be a wife. She had never seen a successful marriage, not one, in her twenty-one years of life. How could she know how to create a happy marriage if she had never even seen one?

The arguments seemed, at the time, hatefully concrete. Unwillingly, the words spilled from her mouth: "William, I know you would be good to me. How could I not know that? It's only that—that things are going so well now. Why change them? Why bother tempting Fate?"

His eyes were so beautiful, the very color of the Atlantic on an overcast day, and they were hopeful. They were still so very hopeful if no longer certain of her answer.

"I want you to marry me," he said. Simply, pleadingly, as if he had already guessed her decision and was struggling against it.

"I know, William. But—"

"You don't want to."

Hurt then, such hurt it made her hurt as well. He dropped her hand, and the look on his face was the exact same look Angel had when she stabbed him through the chest.

"It isn't that I don't want to," she began, perfectly aware of just how lame that sounded. He cut her off before she could continue.

"You are saying no."

She could not bear to look in his eyes; she looked at the floor instead.

"Yes, sweetheart, I—I think I am. I—I think I have to—"

He closed his eyes, a man steeling himself against the blow. "She said no," he whispered to himself. Very softly, but she heard. She reached out to touch his arm.

"Please, please don't be upset. You don't understand—"

He swallowed and when a few seconds later he opened his eyes, they were blank. His specialty, of course: hiding hurt, suppressing everything. "I understand," he said.

"You don't, really. If you'll just let me explain—"

"Thank you for the gift," he interrupted. His voice was blank, too. Dead. She made a grab for his sleeve as he abruptly turned away, but he was too swift. When he walked out of the room just a moment later, it was without a word and without his gift.

Buffy sat down in his abandoned chair, put her head onto the glossy wooden tabletop, and cried. So much for things being perfect.

* * *

* * *

_I don't care anymore. I don't care._

Hours later, when her tears dried and her senses returned, Buffy rose from her chair on trembling legs and stumbled from the dining room, gnawing the inside of her cheek and talking to herself.

What a stupid fool she had been. She _did_ want to marry him. She wanted it so badly that now, thinking of how breezily she had thrown it away, made her feel like vomiting. How could she throw it away, that chance for happiness? Fuck responsibility. She didn't care anymore.

But she _had_ thrown it away, that chance. Maybe for good.

If only she could tell him. If only she could make him see. It was not rejection. Her refusal had not been prompted by a lack of love or desire. It was only her stupid fear. She could stand up and face a vampire or a hell god without blinking an eye, but since Angel had broken her heart, commitment was terrifying to her. More than terrifying, it was almost impossible to contemplate.

_But I want it with you. I want it as I have never wanted it with anyone._

More than anything, she wanted to take it all back, to say yes in spite of all those practical reasons not to. To say yes—to make him happy—to be happy, no matter what the price—

Oh, _why_ could she not tell him that to his face when he asked her? How could she look into those worshipful eyes and tell him no? She, who knew better than anyone else, the effort, the courage, it had taken him to propose.

She staggered up the stairs and then down the hallway, determined to find him, to set things right. The library door was shut, as usual, but she knew that this time it was shut against her. She knew that he was inside. She paused before it, tapped lightly on the heavy dark wood. When there was no response, she reached for the doorknob. It wouldn't turn; he had barred it against her. Locked himself inside alone to nurse his grief. Maybe he was punishing her as well as hiding from her. If he was, she did not blame him in the least. She wanted to punish herself. She wanted to hurt herself, and for the first time she understood how girls could cut themselves, and why they did it. It was punishment for stupidity, she thought. Punishment for not being good enough, worthy enough. It was a way to release the horrible, killing pain inside, to make it external and therefore bearable.

She knocked again, louder this time. She called his name, pleaded with him to open the door. But he wouldn't. He didn't even answer her. Eventually, she gave up. She told herself that it was not that bad. It was not so bad that she couldn't fix it. He just needed time to calm down. He just needed time—

* * *

* * *

William slumped against the back of the battered sofa, listening to her knock, her call. They were strident, painful. Yet he had a tumbler in his hand. He had been drinking since he left her. The alcohol masked the pain, wrapped the sharp corners of the sounds with cotton wool, so that they were muffled and almost bearable. Almost.

Things were so perfect now, she had said. Why change them?

"Why?" he asked the air around him. His tone was bitter, directed at a woman who did not stand before him. "Why change them?" He chuckled drunkenly, his hand shaking so that a little wave of cognac splashed out onto his trousers. He did not even notice it.

Why change things? Because things were _not_ perfect, because he lived constantly in a state of unsatisfied want, because he felt guilty for even wanting it. If she were his wife it would be all right, not shameful at all. If she were his wife he could finally, blissfully, possess her wholly. Not only in the bedroom, but also in his heart, his life. She would be forever his own; no one could take her away from him. He would never again lie awake in the dark, shivering with the thought of her loving another man.

And she did not want him.

He could not fathom it. She loved him. Many times, she said she loved him, and he believed her. Why didn't she want him? What had he done? What had he failed to do, to make her refuse him? To refuse his proposal when, only a moment before, she had been embracing him and touching her soft mouth to his flesh. It would have been better never to own her at all, if he could not own her completely. Not if she was unwilling to own _him._

He had never been one for drink, rarely taking more than a glass of wine at dinner and never spirits. Now he picked up the cut crystal decanter and sloshed more brandy into it, drank deep. It burned like fire going down, vaguely sweet on the back of his tongue, mercifully numbing. For the first time in his life, he wanted to be drunk. He wanted to be so intoxicated that he could blot out that scene entirely, push it from his mind if only for a brief time, so that he could find peace. So far, it was not working.

_I love you. Do you know I love you?_

Not enough, he thought despairingly. Not enough.

* * *

* * *

Evening became a black and starless night, as Buffy lay in her bed and waited for his step in the hall. It did not come for a long while, and she began to wonder if it would ever come. Then it did come: shuffling and clumsy, too slow. His bedroom closed behind him with a bang, and she knew then that he was drunk.

In bare feet, she tiptoed out of her room and down the hall. Not to his bedroom—not yet—but instead into the library. As she guessed they would be, the beautiful decanters on the sideboard were greatly diminished of their contents. One was completely empty. Used glasses were scattered everywhere: tumblers and snifters, cordial and highball glasses. Only one small resevoir glass still had the tiniest bit of liquor in it. Absinthe. He had taken it without diluting it, without sugar, and she shuddered to think what that must have tasted like. How desperate he must have been for relief, if he were willing to do that.

Quietly, she picked up the glasses and put them on a tray. If Anne were to find them, if the servants were to tell her, she would plague him with well-meaning questions. Buffy took them down to the kitchen herself, padding silently across the stone floor so she wouldn't wake the footmen, who slept nearby. There was a big stone sink, a pump to draw water. She pumped enough to fill a bucket, then washed the glasses and dried them. She stacked them back on the tray carefully and carried it upstairs to the library, arranging each glass just as it should be on the ledge of the sideboard.

On a sudden whim, she ran back down. Through the foyer and into the dining room to where his birthday gift still sat, untouched, on the table. She tucked it underneath her arm and took it upstairs with her.

There was no sound from William's room now. None at all except the sound of his slow, even breathing. Buffy tried the knob and it turned easily. She pushed open the door just a crack, enough to peep inside. William was stretched out across the big bed, deep asleep but not passed out. Not that drunk, then. He was still wearing his rumpled shirt, his trousers. Nothing else. Even in repose, his expression looked wounded.

_I can fix it, William. I'll make it better._

She pushed open the door a little wider and stepped inside.

* * *


	26. Chapter TwentyFive

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

He felt the most subtle shifting next to him, something soft and warm climbing onto the feather mattress, underneath the bedclothes. It was almost imperceptible, that movement. But he had always been a light sleeper. Even intoxicated as he was, he was a light sleeper. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Outside his windows, the clouds were beginning to disperse, pulling back their dark blanket to reveal stars, a three-quarter moon. Silver-white moonlight sifted through the open drapes, a wide slat of it barely illuminating the bed where he lay. Alcohol made him slow to react, to comprehend. For just a moment, all he could think was that the moonlight on the dark quilt made it look like water, navy and silver, and the movement of the body underneath it was the rise and fall of the surf.

There was the slightest pressure as someone leaned across him. Two small hands lightly gripped his shoulders and then kisses rained down like cherry blossoms: soft and light, and delicately pink. On his forehead and his cheeks, she kissed him, carefully skirting around his mouth to his chin. His throat. He could hear the sound of her breathing, could feel the warmth of her breath against his flesh. Her voice, so soft it was almost more a feeling than a sound:

_"When thou art not pleased, beloved,  
Then my heart is sad and darkened,  
As the shining river darkens  
When the clouds drop shadows on it! _

When thou smilest, my beloved,  
Then my troubled heart is brightened,  
As in sunshine gleam the ripples  
That the cold wind makes in rivers."

He came awake in a moment, bewilderment rapidly replacing his exhaustion. For a second, he thought that he must have been dreaming; it was so unexpected. So bizarre. Elizabeth, in his bed, nestling against his body; Elizabeth, bathed in the silvery moonlight, her long hair falling in waves over one shoulder, murmuring poetry into the curve of his neck; it _must_ be a dream.

Yet there was the warmth of her, the slight, solid weight of her body resting against him. Real. She must be.

"Elizabeth—" he rasped drunkenly. Hardly even a whisper, yet she heard him. When she answered, her voice was as soft as down, as soothing as a warm bath.

"William. Oh, William, I'm so sorry…"

Her mouth on him: why did he not stop her? Her long hair flowed like water over her shoulder, the silky sheet of it tickling his cheekbone. Why did he not brush it away? It all felt so surreal, so strange.

"Sorry—?" He said it as slowly as an echo. He was awake, but dazed. Awake, but still feeling as if he were in a dream.

"For making you believe I didn't want to marry you, when I do. Sweetheart, I do, so much." She was kissing him as she spoke, kissing and crying, so that her tears dripped down his cheeks as if they were his own. She shifted closer to him, nuzzling, whispering. "Please, forgive me. I didn't mean it. Didn't mean to hurt you…"

He wanted to move, then. He wanted to leap to his feet to argue with her, but his body felt so heavy. So tired. Her mouth was making him dizzy. He choked: "But you don't really mean that."

"I do—I mean it—"

Soft lips kissing at the corners of his mouth, soft fingers rubbing his shoulders; soft body—

Well, he forced his mind from that, forced himself instead to focus on her words and his own pained response to them.

"You say that only because I am upset. You—you say that only to placate me—"

Her body came over him, then. Soft breasts pressed into his chest, and they were bare but for the thin, almost diaphanous material of her nightdress. Her legs settled on either side of his hips, the weight of her body centering between her legs, on his crotch. He gasped at the suddenness of the pressure, at the intense pleasure it wrought.

It was as if she did not hear him, as though she could not feel his body responding—in its usual and inappropriate way—to her presence. She murmured into his throat, dropping words like kisses—with kisses—against his flesh.

"I want to marry you; I want to be your wife. William, I want it so much..."

"You said no—" His voice stronger, then. Discordant and angry, unpleasant even to his own ears. She didn't even flinch.

"I was afraid—I'm afraid—a stupid coward—"

"…afraid of me…?" The mere thought of it hurt. She shook her head emphatically.

"I'm afraid of change…afraid of marriage." She paused in her ministrations long enough to look into his eyes. She was backlit by the window, her face in pale shadow, the curve of her back chased by a line of bright silver. He could not quite see her eyes. Nevertheless, he felt the heat of her gaze burn into him like a brand. She was still crying. He could hear her snuffling between words. The slow spill of hot tears onto his face and neck as she whispered, "William, I lied to you about my father. He didn't die. He ran off. He left my mother and me. Their marriage was a joke, at the end. I've never seen a happy marriage."

"I could make you happy." His throat felt so tight the words didn't want to come. When they did, they burst out like a sob, dry and grating. It embarrassed him, that sound; it seemed more evidence of his weakness. Yet she didn't seem embarrassed for him, or disdainful of him. Her mouth covered his, muffling the sound until it faded back and finally disappeared. He felt her fingertips brush across his chest, across his heart, as if she were trying to pull out the hurt.

And it felt—it felt as if it were working.

"Ask me." She murmured it into his mouth, pleading.

William did not have to question what she meant. He knew. The request was as seductive as the kiss that followed it, maybe more so. Even before he could decide for himself whether he had forgiven her, the words forced their way out:

"Marry me."

"Yes," she whispered. "William, are you listening? The answer is yes."

William was listening. He heard every nuance of every word, but he couldn't respond. Her hands dipped beneath his shirt to caress his chest; her mouth was on his collarbone. He didn't have any words.

He wanted that moment to last forever, but just as swiftly as she appeared, Elizabeth began to retreat. Gracefully, she slid to the side, her body flowing from his like warm milk. Flowing off him. Away from him.

Away.

"Don't," he beseeched her, feeling the sudden blind panic of a man at the end of a gun barrel. If she left now, he thought, it would kill him outright. If she left now—

"Don't—!"

He reached for her and one hand closed around her upper arm. It was so small that his fingers could span it, with room to spare. Smooth as a pearl, fragile as a reed. He thought he was holding her back, but she offered no resistance. She eased back down against him.

"Sweetheart, it's just for a little while. Just a little while so that you can sleep. You're drunk." Her tone was soft as pillows, taking the sting from the accusation. His head rocked from side to side in a way that completely belied his next words.

"I'm not drunk," he insisted. "I just—I—I don't want to be alone anymore. So tired of being alone—lonely—"

"Do you really want me to stay?" she whispered. She sounded surprised, a bit uncertain.

"Stay," he whispered. "Stay with me."

He meant only for her to stay with him, only to stay beneath the bedclothes and against his body. Stay to show him that it was not just some drunken dream and that she would still be here tomorrow morning. That she would, in time, become his wife. He didn't think of sex. Although her earlier attention had him almost painfully aroused, it never entered into his head that they might actually have relations, or even that he wanted to. Yet when he spoke, her embrace suddenly changed. She kissed him full on the mouth; she used her tongue. He was still fully clothed, but beneath the delicate material of her nightdress, her body was bare. Her nightdress slid up her hips as she folded herself around him, and between her legs, that warm secret place gently cradled his erection.

It didn't feel wrong. Although he told himself that it was, in his heart he no longer felt it. She was going to be his wife. With that promise, it felt as if she already were. It felt right, and he had already waited so long—

And in his mind, from far back where the alcohol did not reach, there came the thought: _If we do, then she must marry me. If we do, she will not be able to change her mind._

Terrible thought, that. Yet he could not help himself. He was in love, addicted, desperate. He needed her.

Slowly, she rocked her hips against him, the way she had that first time. Only now, it was better. Now, she was wearing that delicate nightgown of muslin and lace, trimmed with ribbon. Now, he was stretched beneath her, his hands slowly sliding up the backs of thighs, guilt gone somewhere too far away for him to find it.

She leaned over him, the gossamer curtain of her hair falling over his chest as she whispered, "You're sure?"

To which he could only parrot stupidly: "…sure…"

She smelled sweet, like violets, and her mouth tasted of the strawberries they had eaten at dinner. He closed his eyes and inhaled that scent, opened his mouth wider so that she could overwhelm him with the touch of her tongue, the taste. He felt her hands moving down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt, and it was so much like a fantasy that, for a moment, he was certain it must be one.

It wasn't until she spread open his shirt to expose his chest that William felt his first flush of embarrassment. Her mouth was still on his; she was not even looking at him. But to be so bare…so vulnerable…

Her hands were on that vulnerability, touching it and making it into something else altogether. Stroking along his stomach and then moving up, trailing gooseflesh and confusion with her fingertips. His hands were still on her thighs, but with the movement of her body, they slid upward, dipping beneath the rucked hem of her nightdress to outline the swell of her naked bottom. It was unexpected and unplanned, but once his hands were there, he could not move them away. Once there, he could not help but caress the small rump, its flesh as soft and fair as unbleached silk.

A low sound from her—the mewling he remembered so well from before—and then her pelvis bore down against his crotch, creating a friction so intense both of them cried out.

William gasped into her mouth, shifted his lower body so that, in another moment, he was moving in clumsy counterpoint to the sway of her hips. He was going too fast, too hard: an ungainly thrust instead of her sinuous writhing. He knew that he was bad. He knew that it could not be pleasant for her, but he couldn't seem to stop. She put one hand on his hip and held him back with a surprising amount of strength. She slowed him down, showed him how to move so that it was like dancing, their bodies rubbing against each other in a perfect, soundless rhythm.

When finally she broke their kiss, he thought he might have a chance to regain control of his lust, to slow down enough so that he could think. But no, because in the next second, her tongue was in his ear, and all he could do was stare at the shadows on the ceiling and hope he didn't faint.

_Not real. In no way possible, can this be reality._

A hand fondling at his fly, deftly undoing his buttons, easing his trousers over his hipbones: in another lifetime, he would have pulled away, pushed her away. He would have been ashamed. Now, he arched into her fingers and groaned when they wrapped around him. And if before he had been drawn and half-unwilling, then now he was far too enthusiastic. Within moments of her touching him, his need reached a fever pitch too extreme to ignore.

A spasm of hot liquid on her hand; release so intense it almost hurt.

It was agonizing, the moment after. Without the pressing need to climax, he suddenly came back to reality. Reality was that he was lying unbuttoned and opened, beneath a woman even more undressed than he was—a woman who was now wiping his spendings from her hand with the tail of her nightgown. He wanted to hide from reality; he wanted to flee from it. Oddly, this was not because of any sense of guilt in the act. Rather, it was the terrible feeling of shame, of failing her. Worst of all, there was the torturous sense of loss when he realized what he might have experienced had he held on for a bit longer.

Elizabeth, however, acted as if nothing was amiss.

After dropping a light kiss on his sweaty brow, she pushed herself upright, so that now she was not stretched across him but sitting astride. Her position was a little more forward than before, on the V of his belly, just in front of his crotch. Her face was a blur of light and shadow; he could not fathom what she was thinking. Not at that moment and certainly not later, when she pulled her nightdress over her head.

He heard the light rustle of the fabric as it slid up her body; he felt the sudden absence of it against his flesh. He could barely see her in the dimness of the room, but just the thought—just the _thought_—of her nakedness was enough, and he felt his erection returning.

This was, of course, the whole point.

Gently, she picked up each of his hands, one at a time, and lightly kissed each knuckle before placing them, palm-down, on the flat of her stomach.

"Touch me," she whispered.

His hands were shaking, too clumsy to handle something as precious as her naked body. Yet she had asked him to; he tried to do as she asked. He tried to be slow and careful as he slid his hands up her ribcage to touch her breasts. Rather too soon, he thought; he should have built up to it. But it had been such a long wait—so damned _long_—that it was impossible to hold back.

Still, he did his best. One perfect breast in each hand: they fit into the curve of his palms as if that were where God created them to be. Her nipples rose up hard beneath his touch, and for some reason it excited him to feel it. He rolled his thumbs over them until she arched her back and moaned. That excited him even more.

When he first drew one into his mouth, he did it shyly, feeling more than a little embarrassed by what—to him—seemed a completely unnatural desire. His face reddened even as he suckled her, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. Nor did she try to stop him. In fact, the performance seemed to excite her as well. Her head lolled forward, and her hips rolled back, the firm curve of her buttocks pushing against his rapidly hardening member. He moaned, thrusting up against the welcoming flesh.

_"Please, please,"_ he panted, not even completely comprehending of what he was asking for. She reached behind her and wrapped her hand around his erection. Her hips slipped back, and he could feel the slick heat emanating from her center. She was just inches away now. Just inches…

"You're sure? You're positive you want—?" Her voice was gritty, breathless. Not like her voice at all.

William nodded, gasped: "Yes—"

But he wasn't ready. Not at all prepared for the intense heat and the tight flesh that took and took and took, until he was completely sheathed inside her body. Muscles rippling all around him, tightening and releasing, hanging on greedily and then letting go: it was incredible, unlike anything he could have dreamed. He could not imagine it feeling any better than that until her body began to move. She rose up on her knees, easing her way off him. He watched the assent, bewildered and fascinated as his shaft slid out of her. She stopped when only the head remained and then waited a breathless moment. Both of them were panting, tightly strung and quivering in expectation. He couldn't stop touching her. He thought nothing could be better than this.

Then she dropped back down, and after thirty-one years of searching, he found paradise.

* * *

* * *

He awoke at three, needing to vomit.

Buffy was lying beside him. She had been asleep, but his sudden movement woke her, and she could tell from the way he lurched upward that he was about to be sick. Quickly, she slid the porcelain receptacle out from its place underneath the bed and leaned him over it. Just in time, too. Half a second later, he began to retch.

She rubbed the back of his neck as he emptied what seemed to be the entire contents of his stomach into the privy. His skin was clammy; the soft curls that drooped over his forehead were damp. When, finally, he finished, she pulled a handkerchief from his nightstand and gently wiped at the corners of his mouth.

"All done?"

"I—I—I think." He looked weak, dazed. She squeezed his hand.

"Wait here. I'll be right back."

She left the room briefly, returning with a pitcher of cool water, a glass, and a cloth for his face. He rinsed his mouth with the water and spat it into the privy. He let her wipe the sweat from his brow. However, once she finished, he rose to his feet. Despite the purposeful look on his face, he appeared as wobbly as a piece of well-cooked spaghetti; Buffy pushed him back onto the bed.

"Whoa, cowboy. Where're you going?"

"Sour. I must clean my teeth—"

"No, you must not," she replied. "If you put tooth powder in your mouth right now, you'll be sick again."

"But…"

"No buts. Here—" She refilled his glass from the pitcher and handed it to him. "Drink. It'll make you feel better."

He gulped thirstily, watching her over the rim of the glass.

The sky was clear, now, and the moon was so bright that she could actually see him quite well. He was naked, his legs tangled in the sheets and looking far longer than they actually were. His whole body looked long, although he was not very tall. Though their faces were the same, the similarities to Spike's body were few. William was lean, his muscles strong but not large or cut. His wide shoulders made the rest of his body look even narrower, and he was thin. Too thin, really. His collarbones stood out starkly, the ridges of his ribs not visible but easily felt beneath his pale flesh. His belly was slightly hollow and it, too, lacked in any real definition. In short, his was the body of a man who walked a great deal, who rode horses: a body that was healthy and strong, but not terribly powerful. It was the body of a man, not a vampire.

Buffy had not noticed any of these imperfections—if one could call them imperfections—when they were making love. She didn't notice them now. In her mind, he could not have been lovelier. She sat behind him on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around him, kissed the sweet spot between his shoulders.

"Is your tummy all better now?"

He nodded. She had put on her nightdress for the trip downstairs; he was still completely naked but for the sheet. She could tell from his expression that he was feeling shy about it, embarrassed, and she felt the first flicker of uncertainty. How drunk _had_ he been?

"You don't regret what happened tonight…do you?"

He dropped back against the bed, pulling his legs up so that he lay stretched beside her. She was still sitting up at that point, leaning over him, and he looked up at her as a reverent to his god: pure, unadulterated worship.

"You're going to marry me," he said simply, as if that explained everything. There was blatant longing in his tone; Buffy gave him a little squeeze.

"I'm going to marry you," she whispered.

His smile was slow and bright, like a sunrise. He closed his eyes. She saw him mouthing the words to himself, soundless and exultant: "My wife."

"Yours," she assured him. "All yours."

A moment of lingering peace, then his eyes opened again, and they were anxious.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Hurt me?" Buffy was mystified.

"Sometimes it hurts women," he said. And she realized that, even after all that, he thought she had been a virgin. Of course, he would think that. All unmarried women were virgins here, unless they were prostitutes. He had no other experience to offer for comparison. Naturally, he would just assume. It made her sad thinking of his reaction if he knew there had been others. In a way, she wished there hadn't been. She wished that she could be as pure as he seemed to think she was.

"You could never hurt me, William. I trust you never to hurt me. It felt nice—more than nice. It felt wonderful."

He flushed with pleasure at that, suddenly not a repressed Victorian but a normal man, flattered to think that his performance was satisfactory.

"Wonderful," he echoed shyly.

"More than wonderful," she murmured. "Perfect."

He looked pleased. Still, there were the same old doubts, the same uncertainties as before. He asked, "When you came to me, did you come—did you come for—"

Did she come for sex? He was embarrassed to spell it out, but to Buffy, the meaning of his words was clear. She dropped her head down to kiss his neck. "I came to apologize," she said. "I came to make things right, and to tell you that I do want to marry you."

"But you stayed," he began.

"You asked me to," she reminded him. In the white light of the moon, he looked suddenly defensive.

"I—I assure you, I did not mean—"

"I know you didn't mean that. I didn't do it because I thought you expected it…or because I had to. I did it because I love you." She sprawled beside him, allowing one arm and one leg to fall across his body. She kissed his bare chest, just over his heartbeat, and murmured, "I adore you. I just wanted to show you."

"I adore you, as well." He said it in a whisper. For some reason, it made Buffy feel sad instead of happy. She sighed.

"But you don't even know—"

"Know…what?"

"Anything about me."

There was not the slightest shift, not a start, no indication at all that he felt surprised by this statement. Rather, his hand came up to stroke her hair and he took his time in answering.

"I don't ask you questions," he said, finally.

"Why don't you?"

He stared up at the ceiling, seemingly as comfortable with this conversation as any more mundane. Her heart was beating painfully fast in the middle of her throat.

"I suppose it is because I think that you will tell me when the time is fit, when you are ready."

"But you—I mean, there's so much you don't know—"

"I know the important things," he insisted. "I know that you are beautiful and kind; I know that you take care of others before you consider yourself." Beneath her hand, the flesh of his chest suddenly warmed with embarrassment. He added shyly, "I know that you love me."

"And that's enough?" she whispered. She had dropped her head to his shoulder, and she could not see his face, but she could feel him smiling.

"That's enough," he answered softly.

* * *

* * *

Dawn was just fading the night's blackness to gray when he woke again. Soon the servants would awaken; they would begin to ready the house for the day. They would stoke the fires—fires like the one gone to ashes in William's hearth, like the one in the little coal heater in the corner of his room.

She would have to leave soon.

He eased his body out from underneath Elizabeth's without waking her and stepped onto the cold wooden floor. He picked up his trousers from the floor and pulled them on. When he lit the candle on the bedside table, he saw the book lying next to it. _The Song of Hiawatha_, first edition. She had brought it back to him. He reached out, gently touched the leather bindings with his fingertips.

_I'm going to marry you._

She had said it; she must want it. She had just been afraid. It wasn't unusual. Women were often afraid when it came to matters like marriage. And she had come back to him. She had given herself to him. Surely, that must be the most concrete evidence of her intentions. She could not go back on her word, now. He had left his mark on her, in her body. She was _his._

She wanted to be his.

He glanced at the bed, then. Elizabeth was still asleep, lying on her side with one arm folded underneath her. The other arm stretched out across the empty space he had occupied, as if unconsciously reaching out to him. She looked so peaceful. They did not have a great deal of time left, but he thought he might let her sleep a bit longer.

Careful not to disturb her, he perched on the edge of the mattress and reached for his book. The light was dim, but he thought he would read a little until it was time to wake her. When he opened the book, it fell open to the end of the second chapter, as if one of the previous owners had read and reread this passage:

_And the South-Wind o'er the prairie  
Wandered warm with sighs of passion,  
With the sighs of Shawondasee,  
Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes,  
Full of thistle-down the prairie,  
And the maid with hair like sunshine  
Vanished from his sight forever;  
Never more did Shawondasee  
See the maid with yellow tresses_

A shiver skated down his spine, and although he knew that it was completely ludicrous, William felt a sudden stab of terror, reading that. It was a bad omen.

He slammed the book shut.

* * *


	27. Chapter TwentySix

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

He watched her ceaselessly.

Had it been anyone else, Buffy might have chafed beneath the endless stare; it might have been annoying. Not him, though. Never him. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, as he watched her. She pretended she didn't notice the way his gaze followed her as she ate her lunch, read a novel, or climbed the stairs to bed. She pretended not to notice, yet each time, she consciously slowed her movements, made them more graceful for his benefit. Trailing one finger along the cutlery, the book, the banister. She enjoyed her role. The Victorian archetype, sexualized. She liked how good she was at it.

William's love was equal parts passion and paranoia. Having found happiness, he was now suspicious of it, jealous of it. He was so close to having everything he ever wanted, and he felt certain that Fate was waiting to snatch it all away. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop; because when it did, he wanted to be there to catch it. He was reluctant to leave the house without her, reluctant even to leave her side. He hadn't been to work in four days. There was a meeting, long arranged, that he kept putting off. He and the accountant were supposed to go over the books together, to see to it that everything was as it should be. Afterward, they were to take inventory at the warehouses for the same reason. They did this quarterly, as a measure against thievery, and it had been four months since the last count. Yet financial reconciliation held no charms for William now, if it ever did, and he kept postponing it. Buffy knew why, but she didn't say anything. She could see the anxiety in his eyes. She couldn't really blame him for it.

Nor did she blame him for his obsession with finding the perfect engagement ring. He thought that it was bad luck to tell anyone about their plans before she had her ring, yet he was, she quickly realized, very hard to please in that respect. Three days in a row, he left the house in the early afternoon and returned only a little while later with a ring. Yet each one he returned almost immediately, insisting that it wasn't right for her, after all. The first ring, he said, was too large. It was an emerald set in heavy gold and encircled by a cluster of small diamonds. He had purchased it because he thought green might be nice with her eyes, but the stones were too large, the setting too heavy; it weighed down her hand. When he noted this, it was with a barely contained sense of disgust. He should have known better, he said, and the next day he returned it and bought a narrow silver band with an oval cut diamond in the center and two smaller ones on either side. That one he would not even let her try on. It was too pale, he decided. It didn't suit. He should have seen it before. Her brilliance, her fire, deserved something equally vivid. The ring went back to the jeweler's the following day.

The third ring, again, was gold. The stone was a circular sapphire in a plain band. Too plain, William thought. Buffy rather liked it, but again, he insisted it was not right. Amused by this, she allowed him to return it to the box. She knew another would inevitably arrive in its wake. Anyway, the ring itself was of little importance to her; it was just a piece of jewelry. Their relationship seemed to her to be far more significant than any outward symbol of it, and their relationship was perfect.

Almost.

True, William bordered on the obsessive when it came to spending time with her, but he tried hard not to smother her. Each day, for a few hours after lunch, he went into the library, alone, to give her time to herself. She always got the sense that this duty was a torturous one for him to fulfill, and one that he would have avoided had he felt able to. She also got the sense that when he stayed up there, it was with one ear cocked to the door, listening intently for some reassurance that she was all right. She always took pity on him and joined him after an hour or so. After all, she wanted to be with him, as well.

At night, he crept out of his room to be with her. Every night now, he came, and earlier each time. On the third night, he barely even waited for Anne's door to close before slipping down the hallway. He came for _her_, not for sex. At first, there was no sex. At first, he buried his face in her hair and murmured poetry and love-words into her ear. If she kissed him (and she always did), he kissed her back feverishly, his body edging its way across the mattress until it was on top of her. Starving. Starved. Kissing her until they were both so aroused, it almost hurt. Yet it was at this point that he always rolled off her and slid a respectable distance away, contenting himself, for the rest of the night, with merely holding her.

Each night, the same performance. Yet it was different from before. Now she knew that he pulled away not because he was ashamed, but because, in his mind, there was something ungentlemanly about demonstrating too great an interest in such things. He thought he was showing her respect by holding back. He thought he was sparing her something that—if not unpleasant—at the very least, was unnecessary to her. The first two nights, she allowed him the luxury of choosing; for two nights, she left him to struggle. On the third night, however, she did not. On the third night, she took matters into her own hands. Literally. She grabbed him by his shirtfront and held him to her. Once he read her intent and began to respond, she realized just how hungry he was for it. He was so needful that she didn't even try to make him wait. They made love half-dressed, her nightdress unbuttoned and his trousers pushed down to his knees.

Afterward, he acted curiously shy, as if he felt embarrassed by his loss of control. When he started to button his fly, Buffy caught his hand in her own.

"Hey," she whispered. "Relax, stay a while."

"I—I am—"

That, she already knew. He always did stay. He never undressed; he rarely slept. But he stayed. She doubted he could leave now even if he wanted to. Tonight, however, she was determined that he would not only stay but that he would actually rest, as well.

She undressed him, pulled him under the bedclothes with her. He let her do it without objection. In a way, he seemed almost relieved to have her do it. When she rested her head on his shoulder, he reached up to stroke her hair.

"Thank you," he said. His voice was dreamy, a little drowsy.

_Thank you for what?_ Buffy wondered. Did he mean the sex? She asked him, but he shook his head.

"No. Naturally, that was quite nice as well. However, what I meant...what I wanted to say…was thank you, just for being here with me."

"Um, you really don't have to thank me for that. I'm enjoying it as much as you are…what with the being in love with you and all."

She expected him to chuckle at that—he did smile—but his expression sobered quickly. He frowned in a thoughtful, regretful sort of way.

"You should have a ring."

Buffy couldn't help but laugh at him, then. "The eternal search for the ring," she said teasingly. "I'm going to start calling you Frodo."

William looked baffled.

"Frodo—?"

"Never mind. Somehow, I don't think that's a literary reference you're going to get anytime soon. What I mean is the ring is so important to you. Why are you so fixated with it?"

"You will wear it for the rest of your life."

"Yeah, I will. And I'll wear it no matter what it looks like. I'll like it no matter what it looks like, because you gave it to me. It's a part of that whole loving you thing I was talking about earlier."

"But I want it to be perfect," he insisted. She picked up his hand, kissed each knuckle.

"It _will_ be perfect, William. It already is. Everything is…and you don't have to follow me around twenty-four hours a day for it to stay that way."

Her tone was gentle, but his head shot up and around as if she had just slapped him.

"What?"

"Isn't that what you're doing?" she asked softly. "Staying here—putting off that meeting—because you're afraid if you leave, I won't be here when you get back?"

He looked embarrassed. "It isn't that—"

"What, then? You have responsibilities, and lately it seems like you're just ignoring them in order to stay home with me."

In a way, Buffy hated herself for even opening that can of worms. In all honesty, she didn't even want to make him go to the damn meeting. However, she did realize that the more she allowed him to indulge in those paranoid fantasies of his, the harder it would be for him to leave her at all. She would have to show him that a few hours of separation would not kill him. She had to teach herself that, as well.

Naturally, her plan of getting him to talk about his fear in order to overcome it met with some opposition.

"Must we discuss this now?" William mumbled, turning his head away. "I—I don't—"

"William, what do you think is going to happen?" She leaned up on one elbow so that she could stroke his hair, his forehead.

"Nothing," he insisted. "Nothing at all. Truly, I just—I find that I am disinterested with business, presently. The meeting can wait—"

Her eyes searched his, discovering the truth as easily as if he had just whispered it into her ear.

"I'll still be here when you get back, William."

"I know that. I do. It—it is only that—I have never had anything," he whispered. Enough feeling in those words to break her heart, yet she steeled herself against them. He couldn't be this possessive of her forever, and she couldn't keep enjoying it so much, or else they would both go crazy.

"You have me, William. You'll have me when you come back. What do you think I am? Some sort of prisoner that will climb the fence the moment the guard's back is turned?"

"I—I keep thinking—I keep dreaming that one day I shall wake up and you will have disappeared."

A chill skated down her spine, at that. Still, she pushed the concern away and stated firmly, "Dreams don't mean anything, so stop worrying about them. _I am never going to leave you._"

And she believed it.

* * *

* * *

The following day, with some coaxing from Buffy, William did finally meet with his accountant. When he left, he looked for all the world as if he were heading for the gallows instead of an office building downtown. Going over the books would take all day, he said, and taking inventory would be another full day or possibly even more. The idea of being away from her so long, two days in a row, made him miserable.

In truth, Buffy was pretty miserable, herself. Despite the fact that this had been her idea, she missed him terribly once he was gone. She had become so accustomed to his constant presence; she had become so accustomed to her own need for it. The realization of just how much she did only strengthened her belief that this day would be good for both of them.

Nonetheless, it couldn't possibly hurt matters to take him some lunch. Could it?

The idea came to Buffy while she was having her own lunch with Anne in the dining room. They were having Cornish hen, vegetables, and some kind of herb bread that made her mouth water. As she ate, it occurred to her that since William had not come home for lunch, it was possible he wasn't going to eat at all. Another man would go to a restaurant, but she had the feeling that dining out was not something he would want to do alone. And chicken kept well, and it tasted good even when it got cold…

She looked up at Anne with a mischievous smile.

"So, where exactly is this accountant located?"

"I am having no part of this," said Matthew.

"And just why not?" Buffy demanded. "You're a servant, and I'm William's—we're—he's, uh, my close personal friend. So that means you have to do what I say!"

Matthew smirked at that.

"Even were it so that I must obey you—which it isn't—Master William is the head of the household, and his orders take precedent over anyone else's. And his orders are that none of us are to let you out of the house, alone."

Buffy made a frustrated sound. Trust William to go around telling the servants to baby sit her when he wasn't home.

"Actually, what he told _me_ was not to walk around outside, alone. He didn't say one single thing about not riding by myself."

"And do you honestly think he would approve of you doing that?" Matthew asked brusquely. "My God, he won't even—if he knew that Mrs. Anne agreed to this—

"She didn't. I got her to tell me where the accountant's office is, but once she figured out what I was doing, she got kind upset," Buffy admitted. She lifted her chin stubbornly. "And if you think I'm going to listen to you, when I don't even listen to _her_, you're in for a nasty disappointment."

"Where are you going?"

"To get my horse."

She brushed past him and walked into the dusty small stable. Two short rows of loose boxes lined either side of a narrow aisle. Buffy's gray pony was hanging its head over the bars of a stall about halfway down. She grabbed a halter from the wall and headed toward it, Matthew trailing behind her.

"If you aren't the damndest, most stubborn woman—!" he swore. He snatched the halter from her hand. "That won't even fit her!"

"Well, then, get me one that does." He hesitated, and she added, "I'm going whether you want me to or not, so you might as well help me. It's not like I know how to saddle the darn thing myself, anyway."

"If something should happen to you…" he began.

"What's going to happen in broad daylight when I'm on a horse?"

"If something were to happen," he insisted. "I would be held responsible."

"Oh, you would not. Anyway, nothing is going to happen. Anne told me where the place is, and it won't be hard to find. If I have any problems going, or I'm afraid to come back on my own, I'll just wait until William is finished with his business and ride back with him tonight. See? Nothing to worry about."

"Bloody hell," Matthew sighed, but he lifted the pony's head collar from a hook next to its stall.

Buffy hid her smile of triumph until Matthew had unlatched the stall door and stepped inside.

* * *

* * *

William studied the tray of jewels before him with a critical eye. Beside him, the thin, balding shopkeeper hovered nervously, pointing out the virtues of this or that particular piece.

His accountant had gone home for lunch at noon, and this gave William a good hour or so before he could continue working. He was reluctant to dine in any of the nearby restaurants or hotels for fear he might meet someone he knew. This was not because he was afraid of confrontation. He felt perfectly willing to have another go at Charles Archer. But it was such a lovely day; it seemed a shame to ruin it with more unpleasantness. Also, there was the matter of the ring. The shops might be closed by the time he finished his business that evening, and William was determined to bring home her ring tonight. He had waited long enough. He wanted to tell his mother about their plans; he wanted to show off his fiancée (what a wonderful word that was!) to all of London. However, in order to do that, she must have a ring.

There was a jewelry shop near to the accountant's office, and this was where he now stood, holding various jewels up to the light that he might inspect their quality.

"These are all so large," he complained, after thoroughly examining the contents of the tray. "I want something expensive—something of quality—but I don't want something so heavy. The lady in question is quite small and delicate; such a large piece would not suit."

The shopkeeper's eyes lit up with sudden understanding. "Ah! I see, now. And I do think I may have the perfect ring for you, sir. If you will be so kind as to wait a moment while I fetch it…"

He hurried out of the room, returning a moment later with a small box. The moment he opened it, William realized that at last he had found it, the ring. _Her_ ring. It was just right for her, from its delicate band of scrolled silver, to the jewels it held. There was a round ruby, hugged on either side by two small pearls. The stones were good-sized but not overly large or vulgar; they would not burden Elizabeth's small hand.

"Well, what do you think of it, sir?" The jeweler's voice was hushed, as though he were afraid that speaking normally might break the spell. William looked up at him with bright eyes.

"I think it is the one," he said.

* * *

* * *

It was a beautiful spring day. Still rather chilly, being only early March, but bright and full of sunshine. The sky overhead was deep blue, untouched by clouds or by the smog that rose from the coal-chimneys of London. Buffy handled her horse with an inexperienced but competent enough hand, and she navigated the busy London traffic with ease. William's lunch was in a small bundle at the back of her saddle, and she smiled to herself when she imagined what his reaction would be when she brought it to him.

As she became more confident, and the traffic began to thin somewhat, Buffy put her heel into the left side of the horse and pressed her crop into the right side in order to urge it forward. The little mare broke into a brisk trot, her hooves tapping pleasantly against the cobbled streets. She was a little more than halfway to her destination. It seemed nothing at all could go wrong, now.

She was sitting with a relaxed seat and a loose rein when something suddenly struck her. The blow was so violent that she began to feel herself flying sideways and backwards from the saddle. She groped for the balance strap and tried to right herself, but it was impossible. It almost felt as if something was pulling on her—

_Oh, shit,_ she thought, as the mare spooked and broke into a canter. _I'm going to fall off the horse._

She braced herself for the fall, the pain. But it never came. Instead, there was a flash of blinding white light—painfully familiar—and then she knew.

_No,_ she screamed to herself. _God, please not—_

But she never finished the thought, because suddenly the light overtook her. There was only the feeling of time slowing, moving her steadily forward into the place she thought she'd left forever.

The gray pony turned around and trotted home with an empty saddle.

* * *


	28. Chapter TwentySeven

**Chapter Twenty-Seven **

William flung himself from the horse's back almost before it came to a full stop in front of the house. The little Jack-of-all-trades hall boy was standing near the carriage block. He tried to speak, but William ignored his words. He was too eager to see her to stop and talk to a servant. He threw the boy the reins and half-ran across the lawn to the house. As he went, his hand closed over the small lump in his left front trouser pocket. He was almost afraid it would not be there, but it was. A small, black jewelers' box lined with blue velvet. His heart thumped in and out of rhythm as he thought of what he would say when he gave it to her.

He took the front steps two at a time and flung open the front door before Edward could do it for him. He dropped his coat and hat on the foyer carpet, and then headed for the stairs. She had said she would be in the library, waiting for him. It felt as if it had been ages since he had seen her, since he had held her. His hands shook with anticipation, and he clutched the banister tightly to steady himself. Took the first step—

"William."

He turned slightly. His mother was standing just behind him at the foot of the stairs, and he could tell by her expression something dreadful had happened. His first thought was her health. Yet she seemed well, hardly leaning on her cane at all. But her eyes—her eyes were so strange—

"Mother," he said. His heart was already in his throat, threatening to strangle him. _Dear God, why does she look so strange?_

"William, we have been looking for you," she said. Her voice was strange, as well, and not remotely her own. She added, "I sent Matthew out to fetch you. I didn't suppose you would be coming home so early."

Early. How could he wait any later, now that he had found the ring? He worked with the accountant for only an hour after lunch before declaring that he could not bear any more. He had ridden home at a gallop. Still, it did not seem quick to him. Not nearly quick enough.

Now, he stared down at his mother speechlessly. Something about her eyes—something dreadful—

"William, come in here for just a moment please. Come down…"

She motioned to the parlor off to her right, but he didn't follow her direction. Instead, he gripped the banister all the more tightly, almost painfully. "What is it, Mother? Has something happened?"

Her eyes flitted from his face to the floor and then back again. "Something…" she said softly. "Something terrible."

"What? What is it? Are you all right—?" But he knew. By now, he knew it was not she, who was in trouble. "Where is Elizabeth?" he asked suddenly.

"Oh, William. She—"

"Where _is_ she?" His voice was something between a sob and shout, frightening even to him. Anne extended a hand out to him but he stumbled backwards up the stairs, avoiding her touch. "Just tell me where she is!"

"She is gone, William." Anne's face crumpled, and her voice became clogged with tears as she said again, "William, she's gone."

* * *

* * *

At first, he refused to believe it.

Gone. How could she be gone? She loved him. She was _his._ She wouldn't leave him. She had promised never to leave him. Yet she had gone early that afternoon, taken the gray pony, and the animal had returned a short time later without a rider. She was going to visit him, they said. She wanted to take him some food, because she felt certain he had not eaten lunch. The constable who stood, red-faced and hat in hand, in their parlor, thought that she had most likely suffered a fall. His men were checking nearby hospitals and doctor's offices in the event that she injured herself and someone had carried her for help. However, the possibility also remained that someone less virtuous might have found her. This side of London seemed particularly vulnerable to thieves and cutthroats, as of late. Possibly—

Well, William refused to believe that, too.

Although the constable insisted it was not necessary, William left the house to look for her himself. He made a careful circuit all around the area, taking the road to the accountant's dozens of times before reconciling himself to the fact that there was nothing there. There was no sign at all that she had even passed through here, let alone any indication of what might have happened when she did. Even accepting the fact that it was doing no good, William was reluctant to give up his search. He did so only in the hope that perhaps the police had found something.

They hadn't.

William felt curiously numb when he heard this. He knew it was shock, his mind's way of giving him time to adjust to the idea, to the wound. It blocked the greater portion of the pain. For that, he was thankful.

The stunned look on his face and the stupor that he seemed to have placed on himself worried his mother. She reached out to grasp his hand.

"It is rising three o'clock. The constable promised to return at six with a report—sooner, if he should find her or hear of her whereabouts. Why do you not take a bit of a rest until he arrives?"

Slowly, he shook his head.

"If she came…and I was sleeping…"

Her hand passed over his cheek. "Sweetheart, you know should that happen I will wake you straightaway. And you do not have to sleep, if it makes you uneasy. At least lie in the dark for a bit, and take a moment to collect your thoughts. It is nice and quiet, now. No one will disturb you until we hear news…"

He climbed the stairs reluctantly. Slowly, like an old, old man. He might not have gone, had he not been growing tired of the servants. They were, for the most part, still awake. The lower servants, he knew, were waiting down cellar for the higher servants to come and tell them the gossip. James, Sarah Fitzpatrick, Livvy—even Edward—were milling about in the parlor and the hallway, staring at him as if he were an insect under glass. It was unnerving, and he could bear it no longer.

Still, he did not intend to lie upon his bed. Should she arrive home, he did not want to wait even the few moments it would take to wake him, to see her. Not that he expected he would fall asleep. He was in shock; he wasn't sleepy. Nonetheless, it was a risk he was not willing to take. He went instead into the library. Someone had lit the lamps, as if expecting his arrival. The room was warm with the glow of the fire and almost silent save for the quiet _tick tick tick_ of the grandfather clock. William dropped wearily onto the sofa.

_I will never leave you._

So she said. And she hadn't, had she? It was _his_ fault, not hers. He had left her. He knew better than to leave her like that; he had felt for days that it wasn't safe. So for what earthly reason did he allow her to convince him to go?

_Because I love her._

He loved her so much that he left her alone and vulnerable. He loved her so much he sulked and made her believe that she must come to him when he was away. He loved her so much that he gave her that bloody horse, the accursed animal that might have killed her.

Shock slowly began to fade from him, the numbness bleeding away to be replaced by an almost intolerable pain. Also with anger. Anger at himself, at his mother—anger at everyone who could have stopped her from leaving and hadn't. It had been with him since he first heard of her disappearance, that anger. Then it had been small, a flickering spark. Now it caught hold, lapping at his heart like a fire to paper, burning until it consumed him wholly—

His glazed eyes darted across the empty room, and suddenly it seemed as if he could stand it no longer. His life had been nothing but a series of empty rooms until he met Elizabeth. Until he met her, living was something he did vicariously through books and fantasies. Until he met her, books and fantasies had been enough.

Now, they were not.

Now, he faced the possibility of having lost her forever. The possibility that he must return to that former barren existence. Suddenly, the library seemed to him to be a symbol of that previous life—a mocking reminder of the life to come—and he hated it. He hated it so terribly that he did what any man with hatred in his heart does when he has nothing else to lose: he tried to destroy the thing he hated.

He almost did not realize he was doing it. It happened so fast, and the fire inside him was blazing, obscuring everything in a dense black fog. He leapt from the sofa like a cat on the hunt and darted over to the nearest set of bookshelves. Dozens of beautiful books all like careworn and much-loved friends. Except that now he hated them. He dragged them from the shelves and threw them helter-skelter around the room. One of them shattered a mirror; another one landed in the fireplace and threw up a shower of sparks. William didn't notice. He noticed nothing. Nothing at all, except—

_She's never coming back._

He had tried to block out the thought all night, but still it came. Because he knew, she wasn't. She was dead. The fall from the horse had killed her—or else some disgusting vagabond had—and it was all because of him. He had been too weak to take her into hand, to teach her to obey him. Because of this, she saw fit to ride out into London, alone. In effect, he had allowed her to die.

He had killed her.

It was this thought more than anything that kept him going. Had it been only the loss of her, perhaps he might have tired himself out or come to his senses. Yet the knowledge that he had caused her death was literally maddening, and at that moment, when he could no longer block it from his consciousness, he went out of his mind completely.

Dimly above the sounds of his own devastation, William heard the pounding of many footsteps hurrying down the hallway. Through the opened door, a half-dozen stunned faces appeared, and his mother's was amongst them.

"My heavens," she gasped. "William, what on earth—"

He turned his head to look at her, but when he did, hers was not the first face he saw. Matthew was standing just outside the library, one hand propped lightly on the doorframe. He had been down in the cellar—no doubt gossiping with the other servants—when he heard the crashing sounds coming from the library. Like the others, he had hurried to investigate.

There was a kindly, sympathetic look to Matthew's face, but William did not see it. All he could see through his utter desperation was the man who sent his love away on horseback to die. The man who could easily have stopped her, but didn't. His mother could hardly be blamed; she was a woman. But Matthew was a man; he had been ordered by William not to let her go out alone. He could have stopped her—

William lunged across the dozen or so feet that separated them and grabbed Matthew by the lapels of his coat. He yanked him into the room as if he were nothing but a doll. He slammed him into the wall and demanded through clenched teeth, "Did you smile at her?"

"What—?" Matthew's brown eyes were wide with shock.

William hit him, then. So hard across the jawbone that his knuckles split, and Matthew spat blood.

"When you saddled that pony—did you smile at her?" He didn't give the man time to answer before he hit him again, this time across the mouth. He kept beating him, grunting between blows: "When you let her go—when you sent her off to die—"

Matthew's hands came up in front of his torso, struggling to shove William off him, because he would not strike his employer, not for anything. His hands were strong, but madness and sheer force of will made William even stronger. He couldn't push him away.

"Sir—sir, I didn't want—I never wanted her to come to harm—"

William didn't even hear him. He could hear nothing except the roaring hatred in his ears. The brutal thought, singular in its intensity: _I will kill him. I will._

And he would have.

In the end, it was only through the combined efforts of James and Edward that Matthew escaped. They hauled William away from him, pinning his arms behind his back so that he could not strike them. Nevertheless, he gave them a rough time, kicking and cursing. Struggling to break free and return to Matthew.

Meanwhile, Matthew staggered back to the doorway. His face was streaming blood, and his body felt like one enormous bruise. Yet when Anne asked him if he was all right, he said only, "I shall be fine."

"Can you ride?" Anne asked. Her voice was hushed and frightened. Matthew nodded, and she added urgently, "Then go for your Master's doctor. Quickly."

He hit the stairs at a run, wiping the blood from his face as he went.

* * *

* * *

Dr. Gull scarcely had to look at his patient (who still was being forcibly restrained by the hired help) before making his diagnoses.

"Hysterics," he said. "I can give him something to calm him until it passes. As it happens, I have with me quite a good sedative."

"A sedative," echoed Anne anxiously. "Is that quite safe?"

The doctor was already pulling a syringe and a small glass bottle from his bag. He answered off-handedly: "Oh, very safe. This is a morphine derivative, one used commonly for this purpose. We shall give him enough to offer him a good bit of rest, then keep administering it until the danger period is over."

He rocked the bottle gently in between his thumb and forefinger and then plunged the needle of the hypodermic into it, drawing a good amount of fluid into its glass barrel. He tapped it once or twice to remove air before he turned to his patient.

"Hold him quite still," he ordered the servants. "It needs to go into a vein."

They forced William onto the floor. He lay on his back with Matthew sitting across his legs to prevent him from kicking. James held down his right arm and pulled his head to the side. Mr. Edward restrained the left arm, around which the doctor was placing a tourniquet.

It went very quickly.

Afterward, they did not immediately release him because, although injected into the bloodstream, the drug did not take effect immediately. In the matter of a few moments, however, William's body began to go slack. Once it became apparent that he was sleeping—and therefore no longer a threat—the three men let go of him. On the orders of the doctor, Edward and James picked him up and carried him to his bedchamber. Matthew, however, did not accompany them.

He limped quietly down the corridor. The cook and some other servants were standing near the stairs, huddled together like a group of clucking, gossipy hens. When they saw him, they all went quite still. No doubt, they felt shocked by the hideous condition of his face. He could not really fault them for that.

It was Livvy, who finally broke the silence.

"How terrible for you," she said softly. "Was it Master William? It must have been; we all heard the commotion. Sarah said he's gone quite mad…"

The cook snorted. "Mad, my foot," she said angrily. "It's plumb spoiled, he is. Treated like a prince 'round here and parading that little girl about as if she were his bride, instead of a common mistress. You ought to press charges for this, Matthew. Of course, it will do you no good. Nobody in London cares about the working class…not when the wealthy can do whatever they like and get away with it."

"It is all right," Matthew said wearily. "He did not realize what he was doing. Furthermore, I feel that I haven't a right to press charges, even if it was guaranteed to do me some good."

"But why not?" the cook demanded. "Look at your face, man—"

"I would not," he answered softly, "because he was right. I should not have allowed her to leave on that horse. It is my fault she is gone."

He pushed past the little crowd to the staircase. In the wake of such chaos, the house and yard now seemed utterly silent. There was a light burning in the carriage house window, and Matthew knew that inside their small quarters his wife waited for him. But he could not face her just yet. His heart was too heavy for explanations just now, and he could stomach no solace from his wife on the matter. It was his fault, and he did not wish her to tell him otherwise. Matthew was a great believer in holding one accountable for one's actions.

In the dim quiet of the stable, the horses were pacing nervously. They, too, had heard the uproar in the house, and they felt the disturbance just as surely as a person would. He spoke softly to each of them as he passed, and they nickered in response, their soft eyes following his movements with curiosity.

In the stall at the end, Elizabeth's gray pony was bobbing its head nervously. The mare had been quite edgy since she arrived home that afternoon without her rider, leaving Matthew to wonder just what happened out on the streets. He unlatched the door to her stall and stepped inside. When he passed his hand over her neck, he found that it was still quite damp with sweat.

"What frightened you out there?" he asked her softly, rubbing soothing circles beneath her mane. She arched her neck and sighed, and Matthew murmured again, "What did frighten you? You, who are so gentle…so steady. Did you become frightened and lose her? Or did you become frightened because you lost her?"

The gray mare, of course, gave him no answer.

* * *

* * *

When William drifted back into consciousness, it was dark outside. At first, he interpreted this as a positive thing. He thought that it meant he had not slept long. However, when he looked at the small clock on the mantle it read 10:45. He had been asleep for almost a day. They must have sedated him more than once, then.

He sat up in bed quickly. Too quickly. The drug was still quite evident in his system, and he became dizzy when he moved. Nevertheless, he forced himself to his feet. He was still clothed but for his shoes, and he managed to slip those on without too much trouble.

Down the hallway he staggered, wrenching open the door to her bedroom with a clumsy, trembling hand. He half-expected to see her there, lying on the bed and smiling at him as she had so many times before. With everything in him, he hoped to see it.

Of course, he did not.

Her nightdress lay rumpled across the foot of the bed, and he picked it up, buried his face in it. He could smell her in the soft folds of the muslin; he could smell himself there as well. And he remembered—with a painful sense of loss and longing—that last, beautiful night with her.

"Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart," he groaned. _"Why—?"_

He ran the delicate material across his mouth and breathed in its fragrance. Part of him imagined that she would suddenly appear behind him. That at any moment he would feel her slim, smooth arms wrap around his shoulders and her melodious voice in his ear. Because always before when he fell into despair, she had appeared. Always before—

But not this time.

His free hand closed over the small lump in his left trouser pocket—her ring. The ring she would never see…that would never grace her small finger. He felt ill with the thought. He dropped the nightdress and stumbled back out the door, unwilling to sully her room. Instead, he vomited onto the bright wool hallway runner.

After he finished, it seemed that he could not bear to be in the house any longer. _She_ was in the house. She was all around him, but untouchable. Uncaring. She was dead, but her memory remained, taunting him with that which he could not have.

He fled outdoors to the quiet of the dark London streets. It was cool and damp, and he had no coat. Yet he hardly noticed the chill wind and needle-like rain. His heart was bleeding. He had given her everything—everything! His secrets and his dreams, his love and even his very soul. Now she was gone, and she had taken it all with her.

He walked for what seemed like forever. In time, the rain slackened and then stopped. However, the wind picked up. William began to shiver. He sought refuge in an alleyway between two dilapidated brick buildings in a neighborhood not familiar to him. One of the buildings had once been a livery, and there were some moldy bales of straw thrown against the side of it. William sat down on one of them and leaned against the crumbling brick wall. He closed his eyes, not bothering to try to check his tears, nor to stifle the occasional sob that rose in his throat. Why bother? Life was abysmal. He wished to die.

Some time passed—minutes, hours, days, it was all the same to him—when suddenly a small clip-clopping noise approached the mouth of the alley. A woman's heels clicking against the cobbled stone street. William looked up sharply. Hoping—

It was a slim, dark-haired, sloe-eyed woman. She was dressed in black silk and lace, her hair drawn back from her face in a demure chignon, her little hands daintily gloved. Despite the elegant feminine attire, there was something odd about her, something feral and dark. Almost serpentine. At first, William looked away disinterestedly. Then she spoke, and her voice was as smooth as cream, as soothing as the opiate that still circulated in his blood:

"And I wonder. What possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?"

* * *


	29. Chapter TwentyEight

**Author's note:** This is the second part of a novel-length story. It will deal exclusively with William. There will be no Buffy at all until Part Three, so please don't ask me to "tell what's happening in the future." It would disrupt the flow of the narrative. Above all else, this story is a Spuffy romance, but all good romances have adversity, and William has just been handed his. I hope you guys enjoy it. :)

* * *

**Part Two**

_If I wait, the grave is mine house: I have made my bed in the darkness._  
Job 17:13

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight **

He awoke in a dark, closed space. Flat on his back, his arms crossed over his chest, he could feel something beneath him, something lumpy. It was not soft and yet not altogether hard. But it was unyielding. Uncomfortable. The entire place was uncomfortable. It smelled odd, thick with the odors of pinesap and of earth, of staleness and something else, something familiar he could not quite identify. Whatever it was, it was not a pleasant smell. It was black as pitch, and he could not see at all.

William started to rise, eager to leave that foul, claustrophobic place and to find some fresh air. Yet when he tried, he realized that he could not sit up. There was a roof over his head, a roof so low that sitting up was impossible. In fact, when he put his hand to it, he realized there was little more than a four-inch gap between his face and the lid of the box in which he now resided. Because it was a box, he realized. A box made out of roughly hewn pine slabs that did not quite fit flush, so that there were narrow gaps between some of the boards.

His fingers probed the walls around him, and it did not take him long to realize the box was not just a box at all. It was a coffin. And the lumpy thing that his body rested on was the corpse of another man. Although not long dead—certainly not more than a few days into its decline—already, the body was becoming sweet with imminent decay. When William's prodding fingers found the hand of the dead man, the flesh of it felt moist and soft. It peeled a little beneath the pressure of his fingertips. That was when shock ended, and he fully grasped the horror of his situation.

Panic overwhelmed him, an almost animal fear of death and of entrapment. He screamed senselessly, and his hands thrust up, palms pounding against the lid of the coffin. Dirt drifted down between the cracks in the boards, sifting a fine powder onto his face. It only served to increase his terror, and he pounded harder.

Fortunately, the coffin seemed to be of the cheap, Potter's field variety. At any rate, the thin pine boards splintered easily beneath the abuse of his hands. Then, earth poured down onto his face, into his opened, screaming mouth. He clawed at the dirt with hands and feet, pushing his way through it, so, to anyone watching, it would have appeared that the very earth was giving birth to him. A fledgling bird plunging out of its shell and into the world.

He forced his way out into the blessed, fresh air of an early spring night. He threw himself onto the damp grass beside the grave, gasping and laughing at his triumph, half-sobbing from the terror. His lungs hurt with each breath, as if, during his time underground, they had become unaccustomed to the effort. Oddly, it seemed almost as if he must remind himself to breathe, as if he must force it. He attributed this to his fright and pushed it to the back of his mind. Rolling onto his back, he stared up at the starry sky, panting.

Try as he might, he could not quite wrap his dizzied mind around what had happened. The last thing he could remember, before waking up in the coffin, was sitting in an alley, weeping. For her, of course. It was for her. Even now, despite his shock and apprehension, his heart ached for her. His love. His poor lost love. He lived for her; he would have died for her—

_Had_ he almost died for her?

His fingertips pressed more firmly into the cool grass, but he could not banish the thought. Had he tried to do away with himself…because of her? It made sense. He felt like dying when he realized she was gone. He still felt like dying. Even now, in the wake of his struggle for survival, the emergence from the grave, he would happily have lain down his life if it meant the hereafter spent with _her_. Perhaps, he had tried to end his life in that alley. Perhaps, they had found him and assumed him dead. There had been a funeral. They brought him here and—

Buried him in a casket on top of another body? No, that was absurd. Anyway, he did not remember trying to do himself harm in the alley. He did not remember much of anything except the feeling of despair, the chill wind and dampness. No. That was not entirely true. There was something else, an approaching figure in the darkness. However, it was very hazy, and his memory could not quite summon the details of the figure, whether it was male or female, young or old. Only a shadow and the sound of footsteps on cobblestone.

He licked his lips and closed his eyes, trying to force the memory into the forefront of his mind. It did not work. The picture behind his eyelids was not of some shadowy, malevolent stranger. Instead, he saw Elizabeth. His beautiful Elizabeth smiling at him, her eyes green as foreign seas, her long hair the color of honey.

_You have me, William._ He could still hear her saying it.

"But I don't," he whispered, wretchedly. "I never will again."

Once again, despair threatened to overtake him. Possibly it would have, had there not been the smallest sound to distract him. Near to his prone figure, a woman sat, leaning against a tree. She had been sitting there and watching him for some time, yet she had not made her presence known, nor had William taken note of her. Not until now, when she suddenly laughed in a quiet, pleased sort of way.

"I knew you would come this night," she said.

Her soft, south-London accent was vaguely familiar to him, like a voice from a dream. William rose up on his elbows and looked over, but she was little more than an inky shadow beneath the tree. Another, larger shadow lay at her feet.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Show yourself at once!"

Obligingly, she stood up and walked out into the moonlight. She was a slender maid of not more than twenty or so. Dark hair and eyes, dressed in scarlet and black. Again, she seemed familiar in a surreal sort of way, and it took him a moment to remember why. When he remembered that, he remembered everything.

"You are the lady from the alley," he said hoarsely.

She clapped her hands together in the manner of an excited a child.

"Yes, yes!" she said happily. "What else do you recall?"

"You…talked to me…asked me…" He rose to his feet, but he was weak and trembling. He braced one hand against a headstone to steady himself, and his voice was stronger than his legs when he said, "You…you hurt me…"

"I _conceived_ you," she replied exultantly. "A lovely knight of my very own; I've been waiting so long!"

Baffled, he could only stare at her. In the moonlight, she was strangely lovely: her skin like ivory, her mouth red-lipped and smiling. Her gaze was so direct it was unsettling. He forced his eyes away from it.

"I think you made me ill," he said, finally. "I feel—"

Her smile widened.

"Oh! I can remedy that! Easily, I can!"

She turned, stooping to the shadowy lump that still lay beneath the tree. Large as it was, she lifted it with ease. She presented it to William like a trophy.

It was a dead man.

At first repulsed, William took a step backward. Yet she followed him steadily, and when she did, a smell reached his nostrils. It was a coppery, salty, lovely scent, the source of which seemed to be two small wounds on the side of the man's throat.

The scent drew William back to her—but cautiously, for he did not quite trust her. He asked, "What did you—?"

"I saved most of it," she whispered gently, "as a gift for you."

She dropped the body into his arms, and instead of being disgusted by the closeness of the corpse, William found himself oddly intrigued by the attractive, almost-alive odor of it. Instinctively, he lowered his head to the throat, nuzzling lightly at the wound. It smelled _wonderful_. His tongue lapped out, circling one puncture experimentally. Blood trickled into his mouth, tangy and still warm. The taste of it was intoxicating, oddly empowering. Suddenly, he felt maddened by a raging hunger, the strange desire to bury his teeth into the man's neck and drink of him. He looked over at the girl questioningly.

"Allow yourself," she said.

Something shifted in the muscles of his face, and he knew that he was experiencing the same change he had seen in her, in the alley. Fangs dipped down where once there were only teeth; he probed them with his tongue, and they were so sharp as to draw blood.

_Blood!_

He opened his mouth wide and plunged his fangs into the man's neck, bit down hard. The blood in the small wounds had already coagulated, and he had to suck them to release the clots. Blood flowed onto his tongue, not in the wide spurts he would eventually come to know, but slow and languid, forced along by the vigorous suctioning motions of his mouth and throat.

He drank until his belly was full and his head buzzing with the salty-sweet fluid, the very essence of life itself. The man slipped from his grasp, dropped to the ground, and like a spell breaking, William returned to his senses. He looked over at the young woman with something akin to shock. There was a small smile playing around her lips.

"My knight," she said softly. "Do you understand, now?"

He shook his head slightly. Not quite putting them together but at least, seeing the puzzle-pieces in his mind. Vaguely, he remembered the descriptions in those pulp-fiction novels that the ministers denounced from the altar: cheap, gaudily colored illustrations, thin plots of adventures with cannibals or zombies or vampires.

Vampires.

William didn't realize he said the word aloud, but suddenly the woman was nodding vigorously.

"Yes, yes," she whispered.

Oddly, he felt no particular sense of shock or despair upon hearing this. Rather, there was a certain curiosity, a feeling of detachment, as if all this could not possibly be happening to him. He looked at the open grave and then back to the girl.

"I am dead, then."

But the woman shook her head. "You shall live _forever._"

Forever. Then, there would be no merciful death, no peace from the burning in his heart. William felt a flash of anger at the girl; this was not what he had thought she was offering him when she approached him in that dark alley.

"Why did you put me…?" His teeth were clenched and his voice wavering in barely-contained rage. Perceiving this, the girl pouted her disappointment.

"I had to bury you somewhere," she said. "There was a fresh grave, not yet covered, and inside it a coffin. I was really quite clever to think of it…the stars whispered it to me."

William rubbed his hand over his dirty face. The idea seemed more disgusting than clever to him, but given her rather cryptic remark about the stars, he wasn't sure if it was a necessary unpleasantness. Perhaps this was how all vampires came into the world. He tilted his head at the girl. She was still staring at him.

"How many nights past?" he asked her, finally. She answered him promptly.

"Three. Dark daisies take time to grow, you know."

Three nights. How worried his mother must be. To lose Elizabeth and then him in such quick succession Why, she must be frantic. He must go to her, comfort her, and let her know he was all right.

He turned on his heel, forgetting the girl entirely in the advent of this concern. However, he had not taken more than a step or two before he stopped and looked over his shoulder. Remembering. She was walking in the opposite direction, now, humming softly to herself as she weaved between grave markers. He understood that she expected him to follow her from the way she kept glancing backward at him.

There was no affection in his heart for this creature and no sense of gratitude for what she had done for (to?) him. Yet to see her walking away from him like that had him suddenly frantic. And he realized that he needed her. Instinctually, almost viscerally, he needed her. She could teach him.

He jogged across the lawn after her.

* * *

* * *

They wandered the dark streets in near silence. The girl seemed distant, disinterested in him and in her surroundings. She seemed to have retreated inward, and what she saw behind those glazed eyeballs was making her smile in a vague, eerie sort of way.

She took him to Piccadilly Circus, into the back alleys that wound behind the theaters and restaurants. A handful of people were milling there. Actors and actresses, they were leaving after some late performance. Some were lithe and young, others older. They giggled and talked amongst themselves even as they scattered into the darkness. Thespians, of course, did not have the luxury of money; they must walk home.

At first, William could not imagine why the girl (she eventually introduced herself as Drusilla) would bring him to this place. It was not until they began following two young women, walking alone without male protection, that he finally began to understand. They were here to hunt.

Part of him cringed at the idea of murder, but not because he did not desire it. The smell of living blood was on them, and his unexpectedly keen ears could detect the sound of their heartbeats. The hunger he had thought sated in the cemetery suddenly resurfaced, even stronger than before. Yet, he knew that it was wrong. In his heart, he knew. It was only that he wanted it so badly. So badly, he did not even care what he knew; he didn't care if it was wrong. When Drusilla snatched one of the young ladies by the elbow and threw her to him, William did not hesitate to catch her. Dimly above the roaring in his ears, he could hear the shriek of the second girl as Drusilla grabbed her, as well.

The young woman in his arms was young, her hair the shade of chocolate. Her back slammed into his chest when he pulled, and she struggled against him mightily. But she was small, and his arms felt wildly powerful. So strong was his grip, in fact, that he could hear a snapping sound as one of her tiny wrists gave way beneath it. The girl did not scream, however. Unlike her friend, she remained quiet but for a small moan as her arm broke. No screams at all, only her soft voice, beseeching him to let her go.

Ignoring her pleas, he bowed his head and allowed his lips to brush against the soft skin of her neck. She smelled of fresh sweat, of fear and of blood. The big vein in her throat pulsed rapidly against his mouth. Sweet, she smelled so sweet. He felt his face beginning to shift.

As with the man, he sank his teeth into her throat. Only this time, his victim was alive and fully aware of the pain. She squirmed against him, adrenaline flooding her system and giving the blood a sharper taste. Her beating heart pumped the blood from her jugular and it flooded onto his tongue without his having to work for it at all. He closed his eyes and jerked her body tighter against him. As his hunger began to abate, arousal came to replace it. Not excitement in her pretty face or her plump curves but rather, in the violence of it. He was taking her life, and the feeling was pure euphoria.

Drusilla watched him over the drooping head of her own victim.

They finished almost in tandem, letting the girls fall unceremoniously onto the paving stones. Drusilla was smiling again, and as she sidled slowly toward him, William could smell on her body a scent that he knew instinctively to be arousal. She had enjoyed the kill, as well.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" she asked him. "Like picnics in the park."

She reached up, tenderly tracing the lines of his bloodied mouth with her fingertip. The lace of her glove was rough against his flesh, her touch foreign; but when William closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that she was Elizabeth. He did not touch her, because he knew the feel of her would be different, and he wanted, for the time being, to cling to the feeling, the fantasy, that his love had not left him completely.

With hypnotizing slowness, Drusilla leaned into him, brushing her lips back and forth across his own. She whispered, "You're a lovely one."

The fantasy faltered, and William squeezed his eyes tighter, willing her not to say anything else. The smell of her was different, the touch, but still he could imagine. If she did not talk, he could almost make himself believe it.

When Drusilla's fingers fumbled at his fly, unfastening the top button, William shifted away uneasily. The soft kisses had not been enough to arouse him sufficiently, and the fantasy refused to hold.

He started to move past her, but Drusilla suddenly shoved him back, throwing his body against the wall of the building behind him. His back throbbed as it crashed into the rough brick, his mouth watering at the unexpected pain. He sputtered angrily: "What in the bloody—?"

She pressed her body up against him, held him down with an outrageous amount of strength. Cool, searching lips found his once again. But no whispering caress was _this_. She ground down against him, driving his mouth open with the force of her teeth and tongue. She tasted of warm blood; her mouth was violence itself. He shocked himself by responding. He couldn't help but respond. Something in her seemed to awaken something in him, something primal and vicious. And this time, there was no fantasy. This time, he knew exactly whom it was that he was kissing.

Without hesitation or finesse, she undid the buttons of his trousers. There was nothing romantic about the fierce coupling that followed. It was pure lust, brutal and animalistic. It was mindless need. Although he did not realize it at the time, it was the epitome of what his existence would be from now on: cruelty and sex. In the days to come, the two would so often intermingle that, eventually, he would not be able to distinguish between them.

Now, however, he could. Now, as he pulled out of her and buttoned himself back up, William felt a shiver of disgust. He could kill a woman without a flicker of shame, but the knowledge that he had just had relations with someone not Elizabeth, made him feel sick. Perhaps, then, he was deserving of this pain. Perhaps, this was why she had been taken from him. He was not worthy of her.

Drusilla was watching him closely, and what she saw in his face seemed to confuse her. Whatever agenda she had, his reluctance to embrace this life—in effect, to embrace _her_—had not been on it. She hesitated.

"What do you want?" Her tone was more conversational than curious.

William looked over at her in surprise. At first, he thought he had no answer to give her. He parted his lips to tell her this, but suddenly the words spilled out, the desire that had been with him, hidden, all along.

"I want to go home."

* * *


	30. Chapter TwentyNine

**Author's note:** You'll notice that William doesn't need an invitation to enter the house in this chapter. This is because women weren't allowed to own property in the Victorian era, if they had a husband or male children. Upon his father's death, William inherited the property. Even though he is now dead, Anne would not have owned the house yet, anyway. For a woman, property did not exchange over until it was determined that there were no male heirs to inherit. So, technically, no one owns the house, at the moment. I just wanted to let you guys know this, so no one will think it's a plot hole. :)

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

The surreal feeling did not leave him until they arrived at his house. Then it broke like a fever. It wasn't his house anymore, he realized. It was not the same; it was not a home. Not without _her_. Not with this strange creature standing at his side, not with her alien scent upon his flesh and the almost preternatural need he felt for her presence. Drusilla. He did not love her; he did not feel anything for her. Yet he needed her. Somehow, he knew that she was essential to his survival.

Into the darkened foyer they crept. The house was asleep. Quiet but for the rhythmic sound of the servants' breathing, the harsher and less predictable grate of Edward's snoring. All so soft, that at one time, William would not have heard it at all. Now his senses seemed unusually receptive, and the softness was not softness at all but full of keen edges. He heard everything, smelled everything, felt everything. For the first time, he knew his house fully.

The scent of it was different than he remembered. Not one scent at all but dozens of them all intermingled. Blood and sweat, unwashed bodies and unclean hair. The acrid stink of carbolic, the bland aroma of floor wax. And above it all—overpowering it all— there was the odor of his mother's illness. It was a most unpleasant smell, one of rot and infection. Of death. He could almost taste it on his tongue it was so pungent.

Drusilla did not seem to notice it.

"Is this your house, William?" she asked him. Her dark eyes darted around curiously, taking it all in.

"Yes," he said dully.

"Mmm," she sighed. "It smells of daisies and viscera."

"Don't get too attached," he snapped, for some reason irritated by her accurate description. "We won't be here long."

She pouted briefly, but cheered up once she caught scent of the people sleeping downstairs.

"Have you many servants?"

"A fair few." He knew what was coming next.

"May I have them?"

"If you like," he said. His voice was flat. He just couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

She jumped like a little girl and leaned up to kiss his cheek.

"I shall go now. May I?"

"Of course you may. I will be down shortly. I have…something I must do."

He waited until she had gone and then climbed the staircase. Even before he reached his mother's door, he could hear the irregular, wheezing sound of her breath. The smell of death was stronger here.

He wiped his mouth clean of blood before he entered her room.

She was not asleep when he approached the bed. He could tell from her expression that she had not slept at all, these past three nights. At first, she didn't see him standing there in the darkness. Her eyes were glazed, and she was lost in thought. When he cleared his throat, she jumped.

"William!" Her exclamation was little more than a weak whisper, her voice very hoarse. When she tried to rise up, he took her hands and gently pressed her back.

"Stay," he told her. "Keep underneath the covers. The room is chill."

She sat back down, clutching his two hands, as if afraid he would suddenly bolt from her.

"Where have you been, William? _Where?_ I have been so worried—"

"I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean to frighten you. There were circumstances beyond my control. But I am back now."

"I'm so glad! So very glad!"

She embraced him, then. He slid his arms around her thin body and held her close. She trembled, coughed in her customary, paroxysmal way.

"Your breathing seems bad."

"Some worse," she admitted, once the fit passed.

"Has the doctor come?"

"This afternoon. Edward was concerned; he sent word to Dr. Gull."

"And what does Dr. Gull say?" he asked.

Silence from her. However, that told him more than words ever could: she hadn't much time left. He held her even more tightly.

"Mother, if I could cure you…"

"Well, you can't," she said lightly. "So, let us not speak of it anymore. Pray tell me where you have been, William. But first, ring for the servants. You look chilled and pale; call Livvy to bring you some tea."

"I am fine," he insisted. "Quite well. You could be, too. Mother, if you would let me…you could be, too."

"Let you what?" She sounded bewildered. William drew her head against his shoulder.

"Let me cure you," he said.

* * *

* * *

Afterward, he could not think of burying her.

Not for his mother, to be thrust into some shallow, hastily dug pit. Nor would he entertain the notion of putting her into that same dreadful situation in which Drusilla had placed him. Instead, he left her on her bed, pulled her blankets up to her chin and covered her face with a silk shawl. He was not certain it would work like that, her not being in the ground. But he refused to do it in any other way.

When he left Anne's room, Drusilla was still downstairs. William could hear the servants shrieking in pain and terror, but the sound meant nothing to him now. Nonetheless, he was not interested in joining her in her massacre. He moved down the hallway to his own room.

What did one take with him, when he became a vampire? What did one leave behind? William stood in the center of his bedroom, staring around him with something akin to bewilderment as he pondered these questions. Clothing, he supposed. Not much else. He pulled a clean pillowcase from the wardrobe and began filling it with trousers and shirts, an extra pair of shoes. It all felt like a dream.

His sentimentality should have been erased when he became a vampire, but it had not been. Elizabeth's ring was still in his trouser pocket; he would not remove it, nor show it to Drusilla. It was _his_. One of the only things he had left that was.

When he caught a glimpse of the book lying on his night table, he felt a rush of the same possessive feelings as he had for the ring. He picked it up and traced the gold lettering with his fingertips. _The Song of Hiawatha._ Her birthday gift to him. A gift made doubly precious, because it was all he had left of her. He slipped it into his pillowcase—but gently, not willing to toss it carelessly as he had everything else. After this, he could think of nothing else he needed.

He made his way back down the stairs. Matthew was standing in the entryway, just beyond the landing. He seemed frozen in place, one hand pressed into the wall for support. From the cellar came the sounds of agonized screams, of pleading, and of death. Matthew's indecision was plain in his face: he wanted to help them, but he was afraid. When he heard the sound of William's footsteps, he turned around, and for just a minute, their eyes met.

Neither of them spoke. From his expression, William could see that Matthew understood. Perhaps not all of the details, but he understood. His master was not the same anymore.

A spark of hatred caught in William's heart, but it flared briefly and then died. Matthew had been partly responsible for Elizabeth's death, but William knew he held the lion's share of guilt in the matter. Matthew was not an evil man. He had trained the bay and made it the best hunter in the country. He had been William's constant companion during the long rides over the estate. He lived in the coach house with his wife and a little child. He had been as good to Elizabeth as he had known how.

William's desire to kill the man left him, replaced with a weary feeling of defeat. Drusilla's heels were clicking on the cellar stairs; the servants were silent. William looked down the darkened hallway and then back to the coachman.

"Run," he said.

And Matthew did.

Drusilla appeared shortly after, humming a little tune: her eyes as vague as ever, her dress spattered with blood.

"All finished," she told him; her voice was contentment itself. She added, "They screamed so delightfully when I sent them away. Are there any others?"

"Not a one. You did them all."

"Oh…" Her expression changed to one of remorse. "I did not keep one for you. How terribly selfish of me, not to share with my William."

"It's all right," he answered. "Shall we leave now?"

"Oh, no," she told him. "No…the sun will be up before we can stir a step. We must wait here until night comes again."

William glanced toward the gray light of the window.

"What would happen if we did not?" he asked her.

"Then we should fall away like hearth ashes carried on the wind. You mustn't go out into the sunlight, dear William. It burns."

At this, he fell into a brooding silence. Drusilla touched his cheek lightly with the tip of one finger.

"You seem melancholy."

"Only tired. It is a lot to take in."

She motioned to the staircase. "Shall we take our rest, then?"

He nodded and dropped his pillowcase to the floor. Together they walked up the staircase. He suffered her hand on his arm as they ascended. In a way, he even liked the feeling. At least it was physical contact of some sort, with someone. But when she reached for the knob of the nearest door—Elizabeth's door—he flung her off angrily.

"Not that room!"

She might have knocked him down for his insolence, but she did not. Instead, she smiled at him, as if pleased by the sudden act of violence.

"Where, then?"

William took her down the hallway to his own bedchamber. There wasn't anywhere else to go. When they climbed into bed together, she put her head on his shoulder. He did not try to make her do otherwise.

He slept well, when he finally went to sleep. A heavy, dreamless slumber carried him well into the afternoon, and when he awoke, it was to the pressing of her body against his. Her tongue slid into his mouth; his sex was in her hand. She was gentler this time, almost tender. She put his hands on her, and he clumsily returned some of her caresses. He let her have her way.

But when he closed his eyes, hers was not the face he saw.

* * *

* * *

Just after sunset, they went out again. This time, she encouraged him to stalk and catch his own kill. He did so with ease, a natural skill. Another young girl, but this one a prostitute; her blood had a bitter taste. Something in it made him angry, and he was rougher with her than he might have been.

Afterward, he did not feel satiated, so he killed again.

Drusilla was not prepared to return home with him. She killed for pleasure as well as for food, and she wanted to hunt a little longer. William left her and walked by himself to the dark, silent house. When he reached it, there was a corpse on the front lawn. William didn't recognize the man; he must have been a passerby. But he understood the implications of that strange person…a body that had not been there when he and Drusilla left earlier that evening.

It had taken William three days to awaken as a vampire, but his mother had risen in just one.

He ran into the house. There was an orange glow coming from beneath the parlor door: a lamp had been lit, or else the fire. He wrenched open the heavy oak door and stepped through it. There was a grin across his face, now. A purely happy expression that would not return for some weeks hence.

Anne was standing on the far side of the room, playing idly with one of her whatnot trinkets. It was a wooden music box that he had given her on her last birthday. She was opening it, listening briefly to the tinkling tune, and then shutting it again. Over and over, she did this. A small, secret smile was playing about the corners of her mouth. Her cane stood, unused, against the arm of the brocade sofa.

William paused just on the other side of the sofa from her. The grin threatened to crack his face. She looked so much younger. She looked so…_alive_. When she saw him standing there, her smile became different.

"William," she said. There was no surprise in her tone. She had been expecting him.

"Mother, look at you! You're all better."

He stepped forward around the sofa, wanting to hug her, wanting to dance with her. Wanting to celebrate the fact that one person he loved, at least, would remain intact. However, she sidestepped quickly, moving to the corner and making pretense of doing so in order to replace the music box to its shelf. Only he did not realize that it was pretense.

"I suppose I have you to thank for that," she said softly. "How ever shall I repay you?"

* * *

* * *

It all went wrong from there.

After it ended, he could not bear to be in the house any longer. He snatched up his pillowcase and ran out into the night. Finding Drusilla was not hard. She was near to the area where he left her. In an empty warehouse, now. But he could easily detect her scent on the air. He could easily read her presence in the soft, stifled screams that filtered through the broken window glass of the building.

She was kneeling in a swath of moonlight, not far from the door. There was a small child stretched out on the dirty floor just in front of her. From all appearances, she was torturing the little boy instead of feeding from him. William didn't even bother to avert his eyes. He had just experienced something much worse.

She looked up at him with her big dark eyes, and her expression suddenly changed. "Naughty William. What have you been up to?"

He leaned against the wall, trembling. "It—it wasn't right," he mumbled senselessly. "Went all wrong."

He made no further explanation, but somehow she seemed to understand. She put a quick end to the child, dashing it against the wall in a single, practiced move. Then she took William in her arms, pressed his head into her narrow shoulder.

"Poor boy. You're too young to garden. Didn't you know?"

Blessed understanding. He buried his face into her neck, choking back a pained sob.

"Does it always happen, like that?" he asked, desperately. "Does it always—"

She stroked his hair in a kindhearted, absentminded sort of way. Her voice was hushed and oddly peaceful as she answered him.

"Not with you and I."

She held him until the moment he was ready to pull away. Held and stroked him until his trembling ended, and his heart felt soothed. She seemed so different to him now, than when he pulled himself out of the grave. And although he did not yet realize it, this was the moment when his affection for her began. Drusilla: the only creature in the world who still cared for him.

"All better now?" she asked him, once he drew back from her embrace.

Of course, it was not all better. It would never be all better. Nonetheless, William nodded, and Drusilla repaid him with an approving smile.

"The night is getting old, now. Shall we go home?"

"I cannot return there," he insisted. "I won't—"

She tilted her head at him. It seemed, briefly, as if those dark eyes could pull from him every memory he'd ever had.

"That wasn't what I meant," she said.

* * *

* * *

"Home" turned out to be a suite in the Royal Hotel. They barely beat the sun into the empty lobby, and by the time they finished their four-flight walk, it was high in the morning sky.

The rooms were opulent. Gold silk damask on the walls, rich gold-scrolled red carpet. The woods were glossy and dark, sparkling in the indirect sunlight that filtered through the big French windows. William looked around curiously, his pain somehow assuaged by the beauty of the place. By the delightful smell of fresh blood that it contained.

"Is this where you live?" he asked Drusilla, much impressed.

"Where they live," answered Drusilla. She nodded to a divan near the windows, and for the first time, William noticed the dead couple sitting upon it. The woman's head was resting on the man's shoulder, and they almost looked alive but for their empty eyes, the small streams of blood that had trickled down their necks to dry upon the shoulders of their garments. Drusilla looked at them almost affectionately, before she turned back to William and whispered, with a conspirational wink, "Well, where they _lived_. Until Angelus took them for dinner."

"Angelus?" echoed William confusedly. "Who the bloody hell is Angelus—"

As if offering himself as a visual aid, Angelus suddenly appeared in the bedroom doorway. Even bathed in shadows as he was, William could see that he was a big man, tall and wide-shouldered. At first, he neither moved nor spoke, just watched them.

Drusilla seemed quite pleased to see him. She said to him proudly, "Look what I made. It's called Willy."

"William," he corrected irritably. She had never gotten his name wrong before.

For a moment, she looked properly chastised. Then, she resumed her happy expression. "Where's Darla?" she asked Angelus. "I want Darla to see William!"

_Darla,_ thought William, frowning. _Good God, how many of them are there?_

Angelus stepped out of the shadows, slowly moving nearer to them. He answered Drusilla's question dispassionately, in a raspy voice thick with brogue. "Darla and I had a little spat. Her precious Master sent for her. You know Darla. Master's pet."

Drusilla pouted. "Poor Angelus."

"Ach, don't fret, Dru," he answered. "We'll make up. Always do. After a little tit for tat. Shouldn't let that spoil our fun here."

His dark eyes roved over William, appraising his face, his body. Whatever he saw there, it made him smile. He turned to Dru. "So, instead of just feeding off this William…you went and turned him into one of us. Another cock in the henhouse."

"You're not cross with me, are you?"

"Cross?" Angelus' voice sounded almost disbelieving. He reached out with the speed of a viper, and his hand closed over William's arm. He dragged him over to the curtain and forced his arm into the sunlight. It burned.

"Do you have any idea what it's like, having nothing but women for traveling companions? Night in and night out…"

William struggled out of his grip. The crazy bastard. What was he playing at?

"Touch me again—"

Angelus sighed. To William's amazement, he stuck his own hand out into the sunlight, watching almost appreciatively as his skin smoldered beneath the rays.

"Don't mistake me," he said. "I do love the ladies. It's just lately…I've been wondering what it'd be like to share the slaughter of innocents with another man."

He looked over at William and grinned. "You don't think that makes me some kind of a deviant, do you?"

Unexpectedly, William felt surge of affection for the other man. He was odd, and William was almost certain that the honest answer to his question would be a resounding yes. However, there was still something appealing about him. Something William suddenly found himself able to appreciate. He tilted his head at Angelus and smiled.

"Not at all," he said.

* * *

* * *

Almost immediately, he loved Angelus. It came viscerally, from the gut. It was a need stronger, even, than that for his sire. A love that was twice as powerful and not even remotely as sexual, as what he felt for Drusilla. His father had died when he was young; he had never had male friends. The off-handed affability of the other vampire seemed to fill some deep-seated need in him, offering him something he'd never experienced before. In those very early days in London, nothing was more important to him than Angelus' approval.

After all, it was Angelus, not Dru, who taught him how to hunt.

For the first few nights of his new life, William was concerned only with feeding. He seized a victim as quickly as possible, drank of it as quickly as possible and moved on to another victim, until he had his fill. The pursuit of the kill meant nothing to him compared to the kill itself. In fact, he did his best to ensure there would be no pursuit, no real effort involved in gaining his reward. It was Angelus, who taught him something better.

Rarely, did Angelus hunt with them. Usually, he and Darla went off by themselves. But since Darla was still gone to see the Master, Angelus now went alone. He often met up with the others just before daybreak, to talk of what the night had brought. But never did he invite them to go along with him. However, there came a night when Dru was having one of her queer spells (she was spending much of her time sitting in a bath of stale water and talking to her dolls), and she was in little condition to hunt. Angelus felt that William, as a fledgling, should not go alone. So on that night, William and Angelus went out together.

It was a warm night, and hunting was good. Dozens of couples were strolling down the dim paths in the park, enjoying the fresh air. A young woman and her husband were playing a game, chasing one another in and out of the trees, hiding and then showing themselves, having wonderful fun. It would be an easy kill, but more than that, it would be a pleasantly vengeful one. Seeing that happy couple made William's heart burn with jealousy. He hated them for having what he had once had…for having what he would probably never have again. He wanted to destroy them.

He stood in the shadows of a birch tree, and the girl practically ran into his arms. She was panting, laughing. She excused herself politely and then tried to turn away. William, of course, would not let her.

He put a hand to her mouth to keep her quiet and immediately bent his head to her neck. However, before he could deliver that deadly bite, Angelus' voice spoke from right behind him.

"Let her go," he said.

William twisted around to face him, all the while keeping the girl in an iron grasp. "What?" he said disbelievingly. Angelus never showed compassion.

"You've made it too easy on yourself. Let her go."

"But…"

Angelus looked impatient.

"Do you think this is just a kill? Feeding like a street dog in the garbage? We're above that; we make it into art." He leaned inward, speaking in a soft whisper that the girl could not hear. "You let her go, and you let her run. And just when she thinks she's got away…you take her."

William released the girl.

His natural instinct, when she bolted, was to go after her. But Angelus held him back, one strong hand clamped in his shoulder. "Not yet," he said. "Challenge yourself."

The girl fled down the dark, woodsy path, tripping over her long skirts and calling her husband's name. Just when she almost reached him—just as she disappeared from William's sight—Angelus' hand dropped away.

"Go get her," he said.

He followed her in an almost effortless run. In and out of the trees he went, allowing her glimpses of him. She always turned away when she saw him, and this was what he wanted. He was herding her away from her husband, herding her deeper into the trees, deeper into solitude. Just when the moment was right, he lunged for her legs, dragging her down with the weight of his body. She squirmed beneath him, screaming. When he flipped her onto her back, she clawed at his arms, spit in his face.

_Let me go, let me go…_

But he wouldn't.

He didn't use his full strength. Several times, he let her think that she was escaping. Several times, he let her crawl along the wet grass, sliding her body from underneath him. Once, he even let her stand up. Yet always before she could run, he pulled her back down. Angelus had been right. It was a wonderful feeling, the struggle. All violence and adrenaline, and fear. It was arousing. When, finally, he allowed himself the release of the kill, he almost came from the extraordinary physical pleasure of it.

He was still sprawled on top of her body, feeding hungrily, when Angelus appeared at his side.

"Now, see, William? Wasn't that a good deal better?"

And William, overwhelmed by just how much better it was, could only nod in agreement.

* * *


	31. Chapter Thirty

**

Chapter Thirty

**

_Wake up, sweetheart. You've been dreaming._

William struggled into wakefulness, pulled by the soft voice that was speaking to him. A voice even warmer than the sunshine that beat down from overhead, the glaring light of which was making him squint. He rubbed at his eyes with his fists, and somehow, he felt surprised to feel his spectacles there, perched near the end of his nose. He couldn't quite remember why, but he thought that he did not wear spectacles anymore.

He was lying in a meadow, stretched out prone in the warm, dry grass. There was a deep blue sky overhead, and among the grass, yellow dandelions bobbed in what felt like a gentle summer breeze. He had no idea how he'd gotten there, and he didn't care. It all felt so pleasant.

He started to pull himself up slowly, but when he saw what was waiting for him, his movements became much more rapid. "God," he whispered. "Oh, God—thank God—"

She was wearing a white dress, streaming with blue ribbons. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, shiny as corn silk in the bright summer sunshine. She was smiling at him.

"Sorry to wake you," she said. "But you were making a lot of noise. Was it a nightmare?"

_A nightmare…_

He pulled her into his arms, dragging her across the grass with a force that almost hurt them both. But he couldn't help it. It seemed like a century since he'd last held her. Now, he couldn't stop touching her. Her face—her hair—the gentle curve of her bottom lip—all of it was so beautiful, so soft, beneath his fingertips. Unable to bear even the miniscule space between them, William pushed her down into the grass—but very gently, with his right hand pillowing the back of her head. He lay on top of her, held her. He covered her face with hungry kisses.

She was laughing.

"What's gotten into you? Usually, you're not all about the physical affection…that's where I come in."

"Can't help it," he breathed. "Can't help—"

She tangled her fingers through his unruly hair; she pulled his mouth onto hers. Her kiss was deep and ravenous, but still so gentle, so full of love. He gasped into it, returned it with all the passion that was in him. He pleaded with her: "Touch me. Show me that you're real…Show me…"

One of her legs came up, hooking across the backs of his and pulling him deeper in between her thighs. He could feel her hands move to his chest and begin to unbutton his shirt. He could hardly get his breath between kisses, but he didn't care. He didn't care if he died from lack of oxygen. He was unwilling to draw away from her, even for a second. She said:

"I'm real. You know I'm real…you know I'm yours."

And he could have cried from relief.

_Mine._

"Never leave me—"

"You know I'll never—"

WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!

* * *

* * *

William bolted upright on the sofa, coming out of his dream with such violence that it was almost like having his soul ripped from him a second time. There was a woman standing in the doorway, a proud-looking woman with blond hair. She smirked down at him, lying there on the couch, and he stood quickly, hurrying to straighten his disheveled clothing. He knew who she was even without an introduction. After weeks of absence, the infamous Darla had returned.

His eyes rapidly flitted over her before he turned his head aside; she didn't look like a woman who cared to be stared at. What he did see, in those few seconds, was a slim woman of small stature but great presence, carefully powdered and painted, and expensively dressed. After the warmth and happiness of his dream, the arrogant smile on the woman's face chilled his heart. Already, he could tell that he would not like this Darla person, and he wished she had never returned.

Yet she had returned, and there she was, standing in the middle of the suite's front room. She pulled off her gloves and looked around, obviously seeking a familiar face.

"Where is Angelus?" she asked. "And who, exactly, are you?"

"Angelus…" William's brow furrowed as he tried to remember exactly where Angelus was. "He's out in Regent's Park. Still hunting, I suppose."

"Hmm. Well, isn't that interesting. And you tell it so well. So, would you mind telling me exactly who _you_ are?"

"William."

"William. Nice, common name, that. And tell me, William. How did you come to us? Certainly, not by Angelus. You aren't his style at all. So, I'm assuming that Drusilla…"

"Yes."

"Well, insane people do things like that, I've heard. Where is Drusilla?" Her voice was a challenge.

"Asleep."

He left it at that, hoping she would not pursue the subject. However, a cruel light came into her eyes, and she purred: "Is that so? Asleep in her bed, while you lay on the sofa. Is there some trouble in paradise, William? Seems quite early on for that."

"No," he snapped. However, the fact of the matter was that Darla had come closer to the truth than he was willing to admit. His feelings for Dru were as variable as the weather and quite often as stormy. He needed her. At times, he genuinely cared for her. At other times, she seemed little more than a walking reminder of what he had become, of how far he was from where he had started. Although, he was growing accustomed to his life as a vampire—growing to enjoy it immensely—the thought still rankled in his mind. During these times, he found it hard to be with her, even briefly.

No. That was not entirely honest. And once Darla had departed (ostensibly, to find Angelus in the park) William sat down to face the truth. The reality of it was that he cared for Drusilla. She was so fragile, at times, and he wanted to take care of her. He was so fragile at times, and she always took care of _him._ Sometimes, during his moments of vulnerability, he even loved her. But despite the frequent—and growing steadily more intense—acts of sex between them, his love for her was little more than that of a brother. He was protective of her, not passionate.

That, he still reserved for Elizabeth.

In all honesty, it was this and not any feelings of resentment, that drove him from the room he shared with Dru. Most days, he could block Elizabeth from his mind, if he gave it much effort. However, sometimes, after a night of hunting and debauchery, he found himself wanting her so badly that he ached inside. During those times, he could not even consider making his bed with Dru. The sofa was where he spent agonized hours of sleeplessness…ecstatic hours of dreaming of her. Hours where he was not evil, and she was not dead. Hours when she was warm and soft, hours when she was in his arms, the way she was meant to be. Hours when he could not understand how it had all gone so terribly wrong.

He rubbed his hand over his face. This last one had done a number on him, all right. If that bitch hadn't woken him up, then perhaps he could have had a few more minutes…just a few more…so that he could tell her he loved her.

Angry, now, he glanced to the window. Outside, it was still dark, but it was the kind of darkness you knew would not last long, a darkness that came right before dawn. Would he have time for another go? If he were quick…if he were very lucky…would he have time?

He did not allow himself to consider the matter, but stood from the sofa and hastily slid into his shoes and coat. The hunt. The hunt. The hunt. It was all he could think about, now. It was the only thing that made him feel fully alive…that took away the pain. Angelus was right: killing someone slowly…killing them while they were pleading for you not to…it was a feeling unlike any other. For him, it was a merciless feeling of satisfaction, knowing that these people would hurt as bad as he did. For him, it was better than sex…better than Drusilla.

But it was light years away from Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was on his mind as he jogged down the stairs and then out into the street. No soft thoughts now, however. Only a killing rage. His. She was _his._ And they took her—

A small blond girl was just emerging from a house not far ahead. She was strictly working class—plain clothes, a shopping-basket on her arm. Apparently about to take the long walk to market to bring back breakfast.

Well, she would not make it that far.

Stealthily, he followed her, matching his footsteps to her own, so that she would not hear his approach. The sky was fading from inky black to navy blue, when he snatched her. He would have liked to have done it Angelus' way—now, _his_ way, also. However, dawn was rapidly approaching, and such was the depth of his anger, that it would not allow him to wait any longer. He dragged her into an alley, stifling her screams with a hand against her throat. He tore her open with far more violence than necessary; he beat her head against a brick wall when he was finished feeding. It was with deep satisfaction that he hurried out of the alley and down the street towards home.

He had a penchant for killing blondes, now. Not because he was angry with her…but because they were not her.

* * *

* * *

He was lying on the sofa, stretched out and bloodstained, when Angelus returned. Naturally, Darla was in tow. However, if Darla looked at William with distaste, then Angelus' eyes held a certain fatherly pride. He smirked at William's stained shirt, at the wet blood still around his mouth…the flecks of it drying on his forehead.

"Have a good night, did we?"

William grinned back at him. "Rather."

Darla sniffed. "Mm. Good for you. Angelus…aren't we…?"

She motioned to the large master bedroom, and Angelus gave William a wink. "You know the ladies…insatiable."

"In more ways that one," agreed William jocularly.

He waited for the door to close behind them before letting his face fall. The kill was good, but it had been only a momentary release. Now, he found himself back in the same position as before. The same, only worse, because now he felt fully charged, and sleep was an impossibility, after the adrenaline rush of the kill. And awake meant pain. Jesus, it hurt so much. It made him want to kill and kill, until the whole world felt as bad as he did.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box. Already, the velvet covering was becoming worn by the action of his pocket rubbing against it. He turned it over in his hands, for a moment examining it as if he had never seen it before. Then, he opened it and pulled out the ring.

It was so small it wouldn't even fit on his last finger.

He stroked the band with the pad of his index finger, tracing over the jewels like a blind man exploring something he couldn't see.

"You were mine," he whispered to it. He closed his eyes, summoned her image as easily as if he were looking at a photograph. He told her: "You were _mine._"

As if on some cue, Drusilla suddenly called to him from the bedroom.

He fumbled the ring back into its box, the box into his pocket. Her voice had been plaintive; she sometimes had nightmares. He could not refuse her. He hurried into the room.

Dru was sitting up in bed, wearing some silky thing; he supposed it was a nightdress. Not the fragile, chaste garment that once encased his sweetheart, but something scant and almost vulgar. Something similar to what a prostitute would wear. She smiled at him with blank eyes and a sensual smile; also, in the manner of a prostitute. Of course, he had never actually seen a prostitute in action. Still, he could imagine.

William crawled into bed with her, and he felt lackluster at the thought of what must come ahead. Yet he welcomed the feeling. When the choices were numbness and pain, he would choose numbness any day of the week.

* * *

* * *

"What the bloody fuck are you doing, eating that thing?"

William looked up. He was sitting on the front stoop, quartering an apple with his pocketknife. He was waiting for Drusilla to join him, so that they could go hunting. No harm in a little snack in the meantime, he thought.

Obviously, Angelus disagreed.

"You do know that you're a vampire, now. Don't you, my lad? You do know that a bloody apple isn't going to prolong your life."

"Tastes good, though."

Angelus knocked the apple out of his hand. It bounced down the steps and spattered against the cobblestone street. William scowled at him.

"What's the meaning of that?"

"The meaning of it is that I'm growing bloody sick of your moping. The same pointless kills, night after night. Have I taught you nothing?"

"I'm chasing them, now!" said William defensively. But inside, he shuddered. Had Angelus found out the details of last night's (rather, this morning's) killing of the blonde? He hadn't exactly made that into a challenge…

"You're chasing them," mimicked Angelus. "Damn it, I _haven't_ taught you anything. Have I?"

He grabbed William by the upper arm and yanked him off the steps. When Darla appeared in the doorway, he pissed her off thoroughly by saying, "Not tonight. For once, you can go with Dru."

She stormed off, and Angelus turned back to William, his lips drawing back into an uncanny smile. He leaned in so close that William could feel his breath, when he whispered, "Tonight, it's just the boys."

* * *

* * *

"It's time to put some intimacy into this, William."

William looked sidelong at Angelus, as they walked down the foggy street. Whatever intimacy Angelus was talking about, he was fairly certain he did not want to be part of it. He was having a hard enough time mustering enthusiasm for Dru.

He was very relieved, then, when Angelus added, "Haven't you ever wanted to do one that you've known personally? Some little bastard who's wronged you…some bitch who wouldn't give it up when you asked? Don't you have a bloody enemy?"

An enemy…

_He does come up with some of the most inventive verses…_

_Take that home to bed with you, and take your whore as well. Then, you tell me where the integrity lies._

(Whore! His sweetheart a—)

_One can certainly be judged by the company he keeps, and I daresay this—_

(Wanton creature—he called her a wanton creature)

_—you consort with is rubbing off on you._

"I have an enemy," he said hoarsely. His eyes darkened and his fists clenched. He narrowed his eyes at Angelus and said again, "I have an enemy."

* * *

* * *

The Gentleman's Literary Guild meeting let out at nine o'clock, but they arrived at eight-thirty, and it was a good thing they did, for Archer slipped away early. He stood at the carriage block, slapping his gloved hands together and smiling to himself in an arrogant way. No doubt, inwardly congratulating himself for making another poor bastard's life into pure hell. William's blood boiled, just looking at him.

"That's him?" asked Angelus, as they stood a few hundred yards away, staring.

"That's him."

"Go on and get him, then."

William didn't need the little push to the shoulder that Angelus gave him; he was already more than willing. Archer had called her wanton creature—her!

_And whore. Don't forget he called her a whore._

A whore! The son-of-a-bitch bastard!

He was very close before Archer even noticed him. When he did, his eyes were filled with anything but fear.

"Well, Hartley. Good to see you, man. Good to see that you have no lasting damage from our little spat."

"Oh, but I do," said William.

Archer laughed. "I should think most of your damage came later. Gossip about town is that your mistress left you for another…that she rode away on horseback and never returned. Or, perhaps, we have it all wrong. Did you send her away? Couldn't afford her anymore?"

"I did not send her away." William's teeth were clenched; likewise, his fists. Archer noticed it and smirked.

"Ahh…so she did leave you. Well, one can hardly blame her. If I had to spend a lifetime listening to your poetry…well…I hardly think I could bear it! Truly, I would rather have a railroad spike in my head than—"

William thrust out his hand, strong fingers closing around the man's throat and bringing his words to an abrupt halt.

"That," he whispered to Archer, "can be arranged."

One sharp blow to the head was all it took to knock Archer unconscious. William hefted the dead weight of the man's body onto his shoulders and returned to where Angelus was waiting for him, hidden, in the shadows.

"Nicely handled," Angelus complimented him. "Now what do you plan?"

William didn't even pause to think about it.

"A quick stop by the railroad tracks," he replied. "I have some…poetic justice…I should like to dispense."

* * *

* * *

When they arrived home, morning was just beginning to dim the blackness of the sky. Darla, indifferent to the proceedings and still angry with Angelus, had gone to bed. But Drusilla was still awake and stood by, avid. Even Angelus was vaguely interested. Every now and then, he would glance up from his own victim (a tramp found near the railway), to cast a critical eye on William's work.

Archer was still unconscious when William dumped him on top of a decorative table near the door. He studied the man with a certain amount of analytical curiosity, before finally deciding on a course of action. He looked to Angelus briefly and, hoping for some sign of approval, said, "I think we need some wall adornment to complete the décor."

However, Angelus only answered mildly, "You'd best find the studs first, or he'll be coming right back out."

This was good advice. William rapped the walls with his knuckles to locate the beams on each side of the table. They were roughly four feet apart on either side, which worked well for what he had planned. Drusilla picked up the body and held it for him. She lifted it high from the surface of the table and pulled one arm taut while he picked up his mallet and a spike, and considered the best strategy. After some experimentation, it became obvious that driving the spike through the palm, as he had first planned to do, would not work. The bones were too delicate, and the weight of Archer pulling on it would certainly pull off his hands. Instead, he felt around the wrists, and, locating the radius and the ulna, he drove the spike in between them. These bones were stronger, and when he gave the arm an experimental tug, they seemed to hold well to the pressure. He repeated the process on Archer's right arm, and then Drusilla dropped the man, and William kicked the table away.

His calculations were correct in that without the support of the table, Archer's body hung about three feet from the floor. His feet were free and dangling, and for the moment, William left them so. He stood back and watched with a mixture of amusement and immense satisfaction as Archer came awake with a sudden, agonized scream.

"What do you consider?" he asked Angelus, as the other vampire drew up behind him.

"A bit clichéd, but I like it" was the answer. And William felt himself swell with pride.

Then, because Darla was shouting through the walls that she could not sleep through such an uproar, he got a knitting needle out of the workbasket and poked it into his throat. Without vocal chords, Archer made a very nice addition to the room.

* * *

* * *

Archer's body hung in the parlor for four days. William's anger only lasted three. After this, his innate curiosity kept him from killing the man. He tormented that gentleman in any number of ways and always felt fascinated by the results. The endurance of the human body was amazing, and he pushed Archer's to the limit.

On the evening of the fourth day, just when Archer was going into intermittent seizures from the pressure placed on his diaphragm, William came out of the bedroom to find Drusilla playing with the man in a way he did not like. That was the day he killed him. He did so by—quite appropriately, he thought—driving a railroad spike through Archer's head. Angelus wanted him to leave the corpse on the wall for a bit, like a decoration, but William waited until sunset, and then he dragged it into Mayfair, dumping it unceremoniously into David Havisham's front garden.

There was, after all, something to be said for personal feeling.

* * *


	32. Chapter ThirtyOne

**Author's note:** The song cited in this chapter is _Vedi! Le fosche notturne_ (otherwise known as the _Anvil Chorus_). For those of you not familiar with the piece, I've provided a link to it.

**

* * *

**

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-One **

_"Chi del gitano i giorni abbella…"_

William tapped the head of his railway spike with his mallet, so that a pleasant ringing sound hit at counterpoint to his singing. He had a nice voice, a good ear. He had drunk the better part of a bottle of liquor (rotgut, he had discovered, was a great balm for a wounded heart), and his mood had been greatly improved because of it. In his alcohol-soaked mind, he sang to the accompaniment of a full orchestra. He thought the music made an already pleasurable experience downright delightful.

Most likely, David Havisham would not have agreed.

William had let Havisham dangle on the line for a few weeks. He knew the man had called the police to remove Archer's body; he knew, also, that afterward Havisham slept with a revolver underneath his pillow. A revolver! It was laughable. You almost had to feel sorry for the man.

Almost.

Still, William gave him a few weeks to bask in the light of his terror. It wouldn't be much fun otherwise. Then, just when he felt the man's guard might be dropping, he took him. He might have just snatched Havisham off the street; it would have been easier. However, Angelus' lessons were still strong in his mind, so he decided to test himself a bit. He learned, from listening to servants' gossip (he spent a goodly amount of time at Havisham's cellar window, during those last few nights), that there was a ball coming up. Someone's daughter was coming out, or getting married, or some such thing, and it was expected to be quite an affair. It was upon hearing this that William's plan began to form.

Half the men in the city left a ball drunk, and Havisham was no exception. As William knew firsthand, Havisham usually couldn't tell you his own name once he left a society gathering, let alone remember yours. William was counting on this. He waited outside the opulent house of Havisham's host…waited quite late, until he could be sure of not being discovered by late arrivals. Then, when the time was right, he walked around back to the stable yard. Normally, guests' coaches did not stay for the duration of the ball; they would drop off their masters and then return later to pick them up. However, as the host was Havisham's own cousin…or sister-in-law…or, well, whatever she was, he'd had his driver pull around to the rear of the house and wait there for him. This meant he could leave at any time he chose, also that he would not have to wait in an endless line for his carriage after the party ended.

William disposed of the elderly coachman with ease. Then, he took the man's coat and hat—as well as his place on the box—and waited for his target to appear. When Havisham arrived, he noticed nothing unusual about his driver; William had pulled his hat well down his forehead to obscure his face, and Havisham was too intoxicated to recognize him, even if he had not. He staggered into the coach without fear. William drove him to a secluded area near to the hotel, and then he performed the same efficient little clout to the head that he'd used on Archer. Afterward, carrying him home was quite easy.

He didn't want to hang Havisham on the wall; that would be redundant. So, after a little thought (and a great deal of whiskey) he carried the man into the bedroom, laid him out on the floor, and bound and gagged him. Then, while Drusilla sat on the bed and watched, he dropped down beside his victim and tortured him. This was what he was doing at present, as he sang his own accompaniment to the ringing of the hammer on the metal spike.

Naturally, had he used his full strength, the spike would have been driven in completely on the first blow. But that seemed too easy, not to mention boring. Instead, he tempered his movements, so that it went in little by little to the tempo of his song. He began with the right leg, finished with it quickly, and now labored over the left one.

When the tip of the spike finally broke through Havisham's thighbone (and the poor man's muffled screaming would have let them know this, even if the small crunching sound did not), Drusilla started giggling. William looked up at her briefly, winked, and then raised his voice with drunken cheerfulness.

_"Chi del gitano i giorni abbella…chi…chi i giorni abbella…"_

"What the fuck are you doing in here?"

William turned quickly in the direction of the voice. It was Angelus, and he wasn't smiling. He might have known to quiet down by the look on his face alone. However, Angelus had not paid him any notice in days, and intoxication and the sudden desire for the older vampire's attention made him act out in a way he might not have otherwise. He bellowed the ending—

_"La zingarella, la zingarella…La zingarella!"_

—while at the same time plunging the spike into Havisham's hip, causing him to scream around the cloth of his gag.

Angelus crossed the room in a moment. One fist closed around William's shirtfront, and he hauled him to his feet with no effort whatsoever.

"You little bastard. I asked you a question!"

"I like to sing at my work."

"Well, stop it! You're giving Darla a headache."

Oh. Darla. William hated Darla.

_I'll show her a headache when I use her forehead for a pincushion,_ he thought.

Still, he couldn't exactly say that to Angelus. But he did something almost as bad. He laughed at him and then said brashly, "If you don't like this melody, I am open to suggestions."

"My suggestion is that you'd best keep a civil tongue in you, before I cut it off and make you eat it."

William pulled away from him, then. "You certainly are in a poor mood tonight," he said sullenly. This was one of the few things that made him feel truly alive, truly connected with the world around him. Now, it seemed Angelus was trying to take it from him. Yet, he had never minded it before; in fact, he had encouraged it. So, why now—?

"If I'm in a poor mood it's because of _this_." Angelus pulled a rolled-up newspaper from his jacket pocket and thrust it at William. "Read it."

William unfolded the paper. It was crumpled and yellow, difficult to read. They fished their newspapers out of the trash, rather than buying them or going to the greater trouble of killing a newsboy every time they wished to read one. The text on this one was blurred and water-spotted. William had to squint to make out the article.

* * *

**Man Found Mutilated in Mayfair  
Police say possible connection to at least eight other murders**

The mutilated corpse of one Mr. Charles Archer was found Thursday last, on the lawn of a close friend who wishes to keep his name anonymous. While officially listed as head trauma, the detectives at Scotland Yard are not releasing any more details about the cause of death. Witness accounts, however, state that the body suffered multiple stab wounds, burns, and blunt-force trauma. Police refuse to verify these accounts. However, word has it that the detectives have discovered a possible link between this murder and eight others that took place five weeks ago at the residence of one Mr. William Hartley. Eight servants of Mr. Hartley were found dead in their quarters, the victims of severe lacerations to the throat. Mr. Hartley and his mother, Mrs. Anne Hartley, have been missing ever since. Originally, it was suspected that the two were abducted and held for ransom. However, as no one came forward with demands of money, this theory was quickly abandoned. The connection between the two incidences was evidenced when an attendant of the meeting where Mr. Archer was last seen alive came forward with further information. While Mr. Archer never made it to his coach that night, he was seen near the carriage block some moments before it arrived, talking to none other than the missing Mr. Hartley. Police refuse to comment on this matter.

* * *

William read the article twice. He couldn't understand why Angelus was upset. It wasn't as if being in the newspaper was something unusual for him; his disappearance and the details of the murders had already been well documented. Moreover, this particular article was not even a new one. It was already two or three weeks old. He looked up at Angelus with puzzlement.

"My disappearance has already been in the newspapers."

"Not that, you stupid caffler. The other. The connection between you and that Archer fellow. They're going to come looking for you, now."

"Well…it isn't as if they can put me into lockup if they find me."

Angelus grabbed the newspaper from William and hit him upside the head with it. "Our purpose is not to gain publicity or notoriety. We are the creatures of the night; we are the silent hunters, the mysterious artists of death. Don't you see you're cheapening it?"

Part of William wanted to laugh at that—_and they call _me,_ the Bloody Awful Poet?_—but another, more sensible, part of him realized that if he did laugh, then Angelus would grow even angrier. Already, he had learned it didn't do to make Angelus angry.

Instead, he said, in the most insincere and placating of tones, "All right. I understand. I shall endeavor to be more careful not to be seen in the future."

Angelus shoved the paper into William's stomach. "Do that," he said. "I'm enjoying London far too much for you to spoil it for me." He glanced at Havisham and added, "And get that thing out of here. You've played with him enough, and Darla is trying to sleep."

William waited for Angelus to return to his own room, then, regretfully, he turned back to Havisham. "I suppose I must put an end to him, then," he sighed.

But Drusilla grabbed the hand that clutched the spike and held it back. "May I?" she asked. "He's so…vivid. I should like to put him away."

Tilting his head at her, William considered the question. Finally, he raised his weapon and drove it home—not into Havisham's head but into his crotch, blotting out that which might have distracted Dru from her task.

"Now, you may," he said.

* * *

* * *

The night following Havisham's death, William didn't feel like hunting. Not at all. He was hungry for blood, but playing with Havisham had abated his lust for violence, if only temporarily. For now, he preferred to sit alone in the dimly lit hotel suite, rather than accompany the rest of the happy family out into the city. Only Darla felt pleased by his reluctance to join them. Since her return, the four of them had been traveling together to hunt. Likely, this change in routine had to do with Angelus' pride in how well William had taken to his torture lesson with Archer. He recognized that his fledgling was becoming something worthy of accompanying them. Since someone must look to Drusilla's wellbeing, she went with them, as well. Predictably, Darla was not thrilled by this turn of events. And, although his motives might have been entirely selfish, this evening William was happy to oblige her.

In truth, the foremost reason he did not feel like accompanying them that night was that he was still drunk. Having discovered the merits of cheap whisky, he was now guilty of indulging in it often. It was offensive to the palate, to say the least, but it was far more plentiful than the expensive fair that he had once been accustomed to drinking. It also seemed to intoxicate much more quickly; thus the basis of its appeal. He found it to be a wonderful balm for his wounds…particularly the one that festered in the middle of his heart. Tonight, he wanted to revel in the glory of its wonderful numbing properties.

And he wanted to do it alone.

Angelus seemed annoyed by the younger vampire's reluctance to join them. He snapped: "And how, dearest William, do you plan to spend your night? Moping about in the damned dark until you're ready to make the newspapers with another insipid kill, or sitting here all night long, getting bolloxed?"

"The latter," answered William. He took a long swig from his bottle and added, with a smirk, "Well, perhaps both. I suppose it shall depend on just how intoxicated I become."

Angelus kicked him in the leg. "You'd better watch yourself, William. I'm warning you."

Drusilla, meanwhile, was pouting at him. "You're in a tree William, all amongst the clouds. Why do you not come down and join us?"

To which William replied stubbornly, "Because I like the tree. The tree is bloody brilliant."

"And since when did you start drinking like a fishwife?" Angelus demanded, with a look of disgust that William could barely see through his alcohol-induced haze.

He rolled his shoulders carelessly, reluctant to answer the question. Because it was about her, as it always was, and she was his and not to be shared with the likes of them. She was purity and light; he refused to allow them to sully her name with their bloodstained lips. At any rate, Angelus did not seem to be seeking an answer as much as a reason to kick William again, which he did. William barely felt it. Whether that was from alcohol or indifference, he really couldn't say.

He waited until the three of them left, and then rolled over onto his stomach, groping underneath the couch with one hand. There was a hole in the upholstery there, and inside it, he had hidden his book. He'd placed it there some weeks before, when one night, he had discovered Drusilla pulling clothing and personal effects out of everyone's bags and closets, and dancing about, scattering them around the suite as if they were confetti. After that, he grew concerned that his original hiding place (an otherwise empty drawer in the nightstand) was no longer safe. Drusilla did not know about the book. No one knew about it, and he intended to keep it that way.

Although, he had promised himself that he would not spend yet another night brooding over love lost, he pulled the book from its hiding place. He threw himself back down on the sofa; and, with his bottle of whiskey as an audience, he opened the book and began to read.

_When thou art not pleased, beloved,  
Then my heart is sad and darkened,  
As the shining river darkens  
When the clouds drop shadows on it…_

* * *

* * *

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he must have, for the next thing he knew he was waking up, and it was nearly dawn. The sky was slate, and the three of them had returned. He might not have known this (the suite was quiet, and Darla and Dru were noticeably absent from it) had it not been for Angelus, standing there by the window. His face was half in shadow, his eyes trained steadily on—

_Him._

William sat up, uneasy with the intensity of the other man's stare—the type of intensity usually accompanied by abuse for some real or imagined error in behavior. He brushed back his rumpled curls and yawned. "Good hunting, was it?" He might as well keep the conversation light, if he could.

"Fair. The girls have gone to take their rest."

"Well…good. That's good, then."

"Mm," answered Angelus noncommittally. His eyes shifted to the windowpane, and, inwardly, William sighed with relief. He searched the sofa cushions for his book, wanting hide it away while the other vampire's back was turned.

But his book was not there.

Thinking it had fallen to the floor he lay on his stomach and stuck his hand beneath the sofa, blindly exploring the dusty, dark space with his fingertips. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he leapt to his feet with an abruptness that startled even Angelus.

"Where is it? Have you seen—?"

His eyes darted around the room in agitation, but he didn't see it anywhere. He threw over the sofa to make certain he had not missed it. He would have overturned the rest of the furniture as well, had Angelus' firm hand not stopped him.

"What in the holy hell is wrong with you?" Angelus demanded.

William wrenched himself from his grandsire's grasp. "My book, you son of a bitch. What did you do with it? Where is it? Where—"

He shoved Angelus, who shoved him back, twice as hard. So hard, in fact, that William went flying across the room into a curio cabinet. The glass shattered against his back, slicing his shirt and cutting him in dozens of different places. He hardly even noticed. He picked himself back up, refusing to cower under Angelus' dominating stance. He brushed past him and headed into the bedroom that he shared with Drusilla.

She was kneeling on the middle of their bed, holding a pair of embroidery scissors, and happily slashing at something that lay on her lap. William didn't have to draw closer to know that it was the book. She had ripped the pages of it from their bindings and scattered them about the room; some were torn, some were crumpled. Virtually all were unsalvageable. What Drusilla held on her lap, now, was merely the empty cover. One quick and close glance showed him that it was already beyond recognition, nothing more than fringe of dark leather.

For a second, he was so stunned he couldn't even move. His book. The only thing she had ever given him…the only thing he truly had left of her. He had been so careful to protect it from them, to hide it away. Now, in one fucking drunken night, he had been careless, and Drusilla had taken it away.

Dru looked up from her work to see him standing there in the doorway. She smiled at him in a simple and almost childlike way, and said, "She told me you loved her more than me, so I took her away."

The spell broke, then. William lunged across the room to her. He grabbed her by her shoulders and threw her into the wall. "You bleeding bitch! Do you realize what you—?"

His throat closed, and he could not finish. It was almost as if Elizabeth had been killed a second time, taken from him a second time—

Drusilla was laughing.

There was a rack of fireplace tools on the hearth near to where they stood. William snatched up the small, iron shovel. But as much as he wanted to, he could not bring himself to beat her. That same something that had compelled him to follow her from the graveyard on that first night would not let him. Not love but something darker, something instinctual. She was his sire, and although he often hurt her in other ways, it was only because she asked him to do so. He could not bring himself to hurt her out of anger. He dropped the tool to the floor, and Drusilla looked almost as surprised as he felt. In fact, she looked almost…

Disappointed.

William didn't notice her expression. He couldn't look at her, couldn't even bear to be in the same room with her now. He stormed out without a word and slammed the door behind him.

Angelus was standing in the middle of the adjoining room, staring towards the door as if waiting for him.

"I ought to kill you for a fool," he said.

William didn't answer. He knew Angelus was talking about his refusal to submit—a crime far greater than the angry shove that had come before it. He fully expected to receive some sort of cruel punishment for it, yet he didn't fear it. He knew if Angelus came at him now, he would put up a fight. He was that angry. If he were a god, he would have crushed them all beneath his heel.

However, instead of coming at him, Angelus returned the sofa to its upright position and sat down on it. He slouched comfortably into the cushions and sighed. "What'd she do?"

William flopped down beside him. Suddenly, he felt very, very tired.

"She destroyed it." He said it without emotion.

"Ah. That book was something you had when you were human?"

William could see by the twist in Angelus' mouth that he would not approve of the answer. Nonetheless, he gave it honestly. "Yes."

"Some little article from your past gave it to you, no doubt."

"She wasn't—it was more than that."

"Sure it was. She was the love of young Willy's life. And, like the gobshite that you are, you decided to keep it, once young Willy became a vampire. And for what? Sentimental value?"

"It was mine. She had no right—"

Angelus chuckled. "Oh, you can't hide anything from Drusilla, best not even to try." He glanced over at William and, seeing the expression on his face, sighed. "Ah, why are you getting yourself so upset over this? It was just a book, given to you by a lass who probably doesn't think of you at all, now you're gone."

"She's dead."

"You do her?" Angelus looked impressed.

_"No."_

"She died before you, then?"

"Yes. Just prior. In an accident."

"Hm." Angelus snickered. "And you've kept it this long. Why?"

"I already _told_ you—"

"Oh, Jaysus, William. Don't you get it, even now? You are a _vampire_. The girl didn't give that damned book to you; she gave it to a man who doesn't even exist anymore."

"That isn't—"

"Oh, yes?" Angelus smirked. "Then tell me this, my lad. If your girl saw you now…if she saw what you've done in her absence…would she still love you?"

William opened his mouth to answer, but almost immediately, he closed it again. He knew the truth, of course. He just couldn't bear to say it.

Angelus gave him a slap on the back, as if to express some sort of camaraderie in their evil, and then he stood up. "You're doing well, as you are," he added in a friendlier tone. "I suggest you don't arse it all up."

* * *

* * *

_…a man that doesn't exist anymore._

Much later, after he had made his peace with Drusilla and joined her in their bed, Angelus' words came back to him. He sat up in the mid-afternoon light dimmed by drapes, and his eyes drifted over to the ornate, gold-framed mirror that hung on the wall opposite him. His face was not there, of course. He didn't expect it to be. Still, he wondered.

_Just who am I, now? Who am I, really?_

But he didn't have a reflection to look upon, and without it, he really couldn't say.

* * *


	33. Chapter ThirtyTwo

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

He had stepped through the looking glass; that much he knew. On the other side, there was no reflection of him, no way to find out just what he had become. He only knew that he was different from before. A thing that _looked_ like William, but was decidedly _not_ William. Yet, knowing the difference did not help him to understand it. And if he were not William any longer, then he was not certain who he was, exactly. Perhaps, in this state of transition, he was little more than a chrysalis, waiting to be reborn—

_Something._

—but he wasn't quite sure what.

There would be no more torture; that much was certain. Unlike Angelus, who employed the method quite often, torture was something William reserved only for those who deserved it. Although there were many members of London society who had hurt him (and quite a few of them he did away with in a more traditional manner), he did not feel them deserving of such brutal attention. Death, perhaps. But not torture.

The loss of his book was a cockle-burr in his heart, one that would never leave him entirely. Yet, the disappointment faded somewhat over time—faded not because it was forgotten, but because he made a point to push it away. Back into the black recesses of his memory did it go, to be pulled out only in moments of great quiet, or of terrible despair. Likewise, the ring that rarely left his pocket these days. Rarely looked at (for it hurt almost as much as the book that no longer existed), but still carefully guarded. Drusilla would never come to know about it, or, if she did, she was wise enough to hold her peace in the matter. For, if his heart was a jewel with a dead spot, then _she_ resided well outside that spot, and it was for this reason that it never entirely lost its value. Had Drusilla tried to take that last bit of brightness from him, it was entirely possible that not even his demon instinct would save her. It was not that his life was completely without joy. Day by day, he came to enjoy the challenge of the hunt a little more. Still, there was a certain restlessness, the feeling that it was not quite enough. He wanted something more, something apart from his love (that he still wanted, more than anything else), something that could define him for what he had become—for what he was becoming. Something that could distinguish him.

Perhaps, this was why the attention of the press interested him so much. He had not realized before that there were so many articles devoted to him. In the days that followed Angelus' admonishments of him, he perused the ragged newspapers almost daily. Bold headlines on front pages were committed to him, cramped text that recorded each of his crimes (not always accurately; occasionally, he was blamed for Drusilla's kills, particularly when it came to the servants' murders), and odd, interesting monikers that were occasionally flanked by grainy photographs of his human self.

He kept his promise to Angelus, as far as it went. After the first reprimand, he did not allow himself to be seen as he made his rounds in London. However, he made no attempt to hide his presence there. In fact, he went out of his way to garner the attention of both the residents and the press. Although his nights of torturing his victims were over, still he used the railway spikes to distinguish his kills from Darla's, Angelus' and Drusilla's—as well as the various other and lesser vampires that hunted the dark streets of the city. After his feed, he always drove a spike into his empty vessel. The placement of these spikes varied, largely dependent upon his mood. He did not again mutilate _that_ particular bit of anatomy. Since he mostly drank of women (there seemed something sexual and inherently wrong about drawing life's blood from his own gender), he rarely encountered anyone who possessed it, and he had no such neurosis about its feminine equivalent. Mostly, he focused on the head and upper torso and, an unwavering student of Angelus, he always tried to be his most artistic about it.

Although he eased his conscience by telling himself that he was—technically, at least—following his grandsire's orders, William knew that when Angelus found out about his escapades, he would be furious. Yet knowing this did not lessen the appeal at all. He was a celebrity in London…a man feared. He had never been so important before, not to anyone.

Well, _almost_ no one. But in connection to this new life, he could not allow himself to think of them. One of them was sullied, now, and he thought of her not at all. The other was pure…so pure it seemed almost a crime to conjure her image in the now-twisted recesses his brain. She belonged to the man who no longer existed. He was a different man, now. There was nothing poetic or gentle in him. His name was William the Bloody; his name was the Railway Killer; his name was Spike. The papers coined these epithets, and he struggled to create a persona worthy of them.

Truly, he had no idea what trouble this would bring him in the future.

* * *

* * *

It had been a particularly good night for him. Three kills, and one a delightfully tricky catch that involved a gallop on a stolen mount, a skilled grab from the horse's back, and the body of a young woman thrown over the pommel of the saddle. There had been no wasted movement, no error in calculation, and for this, he felt especially proud. It marked his progress, his development from a timid fledgling (timid, of course, only by vampire standards) to a bold and cunning killer.

Once home, he deposited himself on his usual throne: the brocade sofa that, by now, had grown so shabby and dirty from the abuse of his muddy shoes that no one cared to sit on it, save for himself. There was a boy on the corner near the hotel, who sold boxes of homemade cigarettes for a penny. William had secured himself several boxes of them by way of nimble fingers and sharp fangs. Now, he drew one out of its battered box with his teeth, while at the same time scraping a match head along the floorboards. Angelus thought that cigarettes were cheap and without class, but something in their very classlessness appealed to William. He still wore his gentleman's shirt and trousers, but he wore them with neither waistcoat nor jacket. A tie or cravat had not noosed him since his death and subsequent rebirth. One by one, he began to shed the burdens of his old life, and the outer vestments of it were among the first things to go.

He had even begun to ape Drusilla's Cockney accent. However, he did so privately, where none of them could hear him. He didn't know why he did it; certainly, it was not for love of Dru. His feelings for her were no more than possessively affectionate, his attentions primarily fraternal or sexual, depending on the situation. Yet, there was something appealing about hearing his own voice become so hard, so common, and so far removed from where he had begun. He sneered at the empty mirror; he shook his now-lank hair from his forehead and threw his features into that of a killer, a demon. And, although he could not see the results of this, he could feel them, and he was pleased.

But he did it all where Angelus could not see him.

Now, he stretched out comfortably on his sofa, propping his feet on the battered arm and admiring the scuffed boots he had stolen from one of Drusilla's dead men. Of course, they did not match his expensive wool trousers and linen shirt, but he felt quite proud of them anyway. In them, his feet looked large and predatory, and they made a pleasantly ominous thumping sound when he walked.

Blue smoke rose lazily from the tip of his cigarette. When he exhaled, William tried blowing smoke rings as he had seen other men do (dockworkers and coal carters, mostly; but he had a growing affinity for the working class). However, even after three cigarettes worth of trying, most of his "rings" resembled nothing more than foggy blobs. He was just about to light his fourth when Angelus arrived.

Actually, "stormed in" might have been better description of it, for Angelus flung open the door with a force that almost knocked it from its hinges. He did not bother to close it after him, but it did not matter; the door struck the wall so violently that it bounced back and shut of its own accord.

"Bad night?" William asked him blandly.

"You little son of a bitch!"

Angelus lunged forward, but even as shocked as he was, William still had plenty of time to react before the other vampire reached him. He rolled off the sofa and darted some distance away. He extended both arms, palms out, as if to ward off his grandsire's wrath.

"What in the bloody hell did I—"

With an agility that William had no idea he was capable of, Angelus bounded across the space separating them, jumping over a Windsor chair so that, in a remarkably short period of time, he was right in front of William. He backed him into a corner and shoved a crumpled newspaper into his face.

"See that?" he growled. "Do you see that? You lying little bastard—"

William got a brief glimpse of the headline before Angelus ground the paper into his face: **William the Bloody Strikes Again.**

Stupid as it was, given the situation, William felt a certain rush of pride, reading that. Front page, too. His conceit made him reckless, and he pushed the paper away coolly. "Jealous?"

Angelus gritted his teeth, but for the moment, he let the comment pass. Instead, he read aloud a portion of the article. His tone was harsh, derisive, as he quoted: "Nicknamed 'Spike' in certain circles of law enforcement, William Hartley has claimed the lives of at least four new victims. His handiwork is said to be easily distinguished by his propensity for railway spikes—"

At this point, Angelus threw down the newspaper. He looked enraged. _"Railway spikes?"_ he demanded. "You stupid—you fucking little—do you even realize what you've done?"

"Gained some recognition, I should think," answered William boldly. He wasn't at all afraid of Angelus' tirade, and the knowledge of his own bravery made him giddy.

Angelus grabbed a bottle of liquor from the table next to him, and he hit William on the side of the head with it. "You've left them a trail to follow!"

"A trail to _where?"_ argued William, spitting out glass and ignoring the blood and whiskey that trickled down his temple. "The railway station? It isn't as if I've brought them home—"

"You dumped that Havisham person in a manure pile outside a livery less than a block from here!"

William had forgotten about that.

"Well, I'm willing to admit that one was rather reckless—"

"Reckless!" Angelus shook him by his shirtfront, and then slammed him against the wall. "I warned you never to be reckless!"

William tried to squirm away from him, but Angelus' body blocked him in. He leaned close, and for a moment, all William could see was two sparkling dark eyes. Angelus' voice dropped to a poisonous whisper that almost had the lilt of a purr. "You think you're something, now. Don't you, Willy? Think you're ready to play with the big boys. Yet, you can't even manage to keep a woman satisfied—"

William blanched at that. He knew, of course, that Angelus and Dru slept together; he could see as well as hear the evidence of their passion. He didn't like it, but there seemed little he could do about it, given that it had been occurring long before his arrival to the clan. The way he dealt with the unpleasantness was to ignore it. Now, to have it shoved into his face…

He opened his mouth, but before he could offer some angry retort, Angelus was overriding him in a loud, laughing tone. "Do you know what Dru's told me, young William? She says that you call out for another, when you sleep. That you mumble that name over and over…that you plead with her not to go. 'Don't go, Eliza—"

Her name. He had no right to say _her_ name!

Anger flared and, with it, strength. William threw off Angelus' hands and his body. He struck out with both fists, and his left one connected. Because Angelus was already in an unbalanced position, the force of the blow knocked him over. He stumbled backward against the arm of the Windsor chair, and tumbled over it onto the floor.

William watched all this in shock. Angelus. He had struck _Angelus._ His own sire's sire. Not some godlike being, after all, but fallible, as the rest of them were. And he—William—had struck him down—

Before he could fully grasp the enormity of this, Angelus rose to his feet. Yellow eyes and twisted features; there was blood at the corner of his mouth. William felt his own features shift at the changes in Angelus.' He bared his fangs and did not back away from the other vampire's approach.

This, as it turned out, was a mistake.

Angelus circled just a few feet to the outside; William had to keep turning to keep his back from being exposed. He thought—quite wrongly—that as long as Angelus was a distance away, as long as he continued to face him, he was safe. It wasn't until a second after Angelus knocked him down that he realized the error of his ways.

It came from the front, a leap forward with one leg extended. His leather-shod foot caught William in the throat and sent him crashing to the floor. Then, he raised said-same foot in preparation to stomp his unfortunate adversary in his stomach. William rolled away a second before it struck, and Angelus' foot came down on the empty floorboards with a force that made the windows rattle.

In the instant it took for Angelus to regroup, William scrambled to his feet. He tipped over a decorative table with his heel and snapped off one leg, held it before him not as a stake but as a club.

Undaunted, Angelus kicked his way through the splintered ruins of the table. William swung the weapon at him, but with a rapid and almost graceful swipe of one forearm, Angelus pushed the club into William's own gut, causing him to grunt in pain. He recovered in a second, but in a space of time half that length, Angelus was upon him.

He grabbed William's left arm and twisted it behind his back, spinning him so that he faced the wall. Angelus savagely smashed his face into the plaster, and William saw stars, his demon visage faltering and ultimately dying in the advent of his shock. He could feel the hard, wide wall of his grandsire's chest against his back, and he bucked, trying to throw off that hateful weight. Exercise had made his muscles hard and sharply defined; he was sinewy as a jungle cat, and twice as strong. However, Angelus was stronger, heavier; he had the advantage of a century's experience. Once in that ironclad grip, William didn't stand a chance of escaping it, regardless of how violently he resisted.

Angelus pressed into him, his back slightly bent and his mouth against William's ear. Tepid breath passed over his flesh as his grandsire whispered, "You think you can take me on, do you, William? I _made_ you, same as I made Drusilla. She may have sired you—but I taught you. Seems like you weren't paying much attention, that first time. So, I think we'll have us another lesson, now."

A rough hand snaked between William's crotch and the wall; there was a hard knot pressing insistently—almost painfully—into his lower back. Even before Angelus began undoing his buttons, William read his intent. He panicked—_Oh, bollocks. This is really going to hurt_—but there seemed to be very little he could do to prevent it. His desperate struggling got him nowhere fast. One of his arms Angelus still held twisted behind his back; William's other palm pressed flat against the wall before him. His fingers grappled helplessly at the scrolled paper as the other man drove in.

He might have howled from the pain of it, but he did not. He didn't want to give Angelus the satisfaction. Still, it hurt dreadfully. William pushed the side of his head against that stout, unforgiving plaster, and he bit his bottom lip until the blood came, counting the thrusts until it was over.

It took quite a while.

When, finally, he finished, Angelus took William by the shoulders and threw him to the floor. Onto his stomach, he threw him and then kicked him savagely in the ribs.

"Get up," he snarled afterward. "You look ludicrous."

William raised his head and forced himself up onto his elbows, but his lower body hurt too much to bear thinking about. He dropped back down.

Darla was perched on the arm of the Windsor chair, only a few feet away from them. William hadn't heard her enter, but judging from the smug expression on her face, she had borne witness to at least some of the assault. She looked amused, but when Angelus approached her, she pushed him away with both hands.

"Not until you wash yourself clean of _that_." She indicated William's still-prone body with a jerk of her chin, and added, "After all, this is a new dress."

He chuckled good-naturedly and, a moment later, both of them moved off. The click of the bedroom door closing after them sounded like a gunshot.

William did not move. For some length of time (he had no way of knowing how long, but it felt like hours), he lay on his stomach with his jawbone pressed against smooth, cold wood floor. His gums were bleeding, and he sucked his teeth idly, as a way to pass the time.

When, finally, the throbbing pain became somewhat bearable, he pushed himself up. When he got to his feet, he could feel cool blood trickling down the backs of his legs; he could smell it, heavy, on the air. His body felt debased: the smell and feel of something alien inside him, the torn flesh and stretched walls where something had invaded.

He felt violated in more ways than one, but perhaps worst of all was the feeling that this had not been some sporadic act of violence and dominance—had it been, then perhaps he could have borne it with some equanimity. Yet there was the sense—the odd and indescribable suspicion—that this had not been only some brief and unintentional interlude in their everyday, but that it had been…

Not planned.

No, not planned. But _anticipated._ As if for months now, the other vampire had been waiting for an opportunity, an excuse. William could remember the way the dark eyes followed him, the uncanny way he would sometimes look up or wake up to find Angelus staring at him. There was no sense of attraction in the other vampire's manner…certainly no sense of any sort of bond, other than that of blood and of family. But it was the desire for—

_Violation._

—corruption. Corruption and control. That was what he wanted. Forced sex was merely the means by which to achieve it.

He had never hated anyone the way he now hated Angelus.

Gingerly, William walked the twenty or so steps it took to reach his bedroom. To his shock, Drusilla was sitting on their bed. She was holding a pillow on her lap and her expression was one of utmost sympathy; she, too, had seen something of his defilement.

"Poor William," she murmured gently. "Daddy was quite cross with you."

"_Daddy_ is a goddamned psychopath," William snapped. He limped his way over to the washstand and poured some water out of the pitcher into the bowl. He could feel Drusilla's eyes on him as he cleaned himself off, but he didn't look over his shoulder at her.

Instead, he focused his eyes on the china bowl, the water now tinged as pink as the soiled cloth he dipped into it. He cradled his hatred to him like a foundling, and in his mind was the searing, singular thought—

_I don't have to do what you say, anymore._

* * *


	34. Chapter ThirtyThree

**Chapter Thirty-Three **

William didn't leave the hotel for two days. This was not out of choice. Mentally, he was ready to bugger off the moment he picked himself up off the floor. But his physical capability of doing so was another matter. He healed much more rapidly than a human male would have, but he didn't heal overnight. For two days, he was forced to lie abed, stretched out on his side so as not to put pressure on the injured area. He couldn't even hunt for himself; each night, Drusilla brought him his repast. Men, each time, because in a manner similar to himself, she preferred killing those of opposite gender. William would have preferred meals of the fairer sex, but he never told her this. He was merely grateful for the food, for the warm, healing blood of victims still alive and squirming in the bindings Dru had placed around them.

At any rate, the second of these two men William found oddly intriguing. Unlike the first man, who was clearly a person of some class, this fellow was rough and dirty. His face was black with the grime of the coal he delivered, and his clothes were coarse. A homespun shirt of unbleached cotton, dark trousers, and a long, dark brown woolen coat. His boots were worn to near raggedness, and those William left alone. But for all the rest, he was so impressed that he stripped the corpse.

When, on the third night, William sallied forth from his convalescence, he did so in these crude garments. They were intended for Angelus, of course. Angelus hated the working-class, and he scowled when he saw what his protégé was wearing. Yet his anger was prompted by not only the clothing, but also by what it represented. He suddenly realized that, in spite of his best efforts, he had still not succeeded in forcing William to submit. However, to William's surprise (and, if he were honest with himself, his disappointment) the older vampire said nothing about his attire. He didn't speak to William at all, but instead favored him with a brief and contemptuous glance, and then proceeded to ignore him completely.

When Angelus left, he took Dru with him, as well as Darla. This gesture was supposed to demonstrate his superiority to the younger vampire, of course. But William remained unfazed by it. Drusilla had little choice but to accompany her sire when he ordered her to; and it didn't bother him overly much. Furthermore, he had his own plans for the evening, and they did not include any of the rest of them.

_I don't have to do what you say, anymore._

The thought was still burning in his mind, in his gut, when he swaggered down the street some moments later. The confidence was only partly genuine, for he was still in that state of confused transition. But to anyone watching him, he was full of dangerous self-possession. In his right fist, he clutched a dirty burlap sack full of railway spikes; in his left hand, held between thumb and forefinger, was a cigarette. The other pedestrians, reading his threat if not his intentions, stayed well clear of him.

Despite his purposeful stride, at first William had little idea of where he might be going. It was only the result that interested him, not the destination, and the result would be to prove to Angelus that he would not be dominated. When he arrived in Parliament Square sometime later, it seemed as good a place as any to begin. The headquarters of Scotland Yard was located not far off Whitehall, and when he saw it, William knew exactly what he was going to do. He also knew that the plan was a dodgy one at best. He simply did not care.

There was a loose stone on the road. He picked it up and threw it into the nearest window of the large, brick building. If that didn't gain their attention, he thought, then nothing would.

The glass shattered beautifully, and the reaction that followed it was surprisingly swift. Not just by the police officers, but by the civilians, as well. Men poured out onto the street around him. Blue coats and dark coats, homespun and the finest wool, gentlemen and working-class, police and pedestrians, they all seemed to recognize him at once.

And, amazingly enough, they did not seem to be afraid of him.

It was the sheer number of them, of course. They felt no danger in his presence when there were so many of them. They shouted for their women to take cover, to bar the doors after them, but the men kept coming fearlessly. Someone shouted his name, someone else shouted "Spike," and yet another started screaming something almost incoherent about his dead daughter. They swarmed around him, menacing in their own right, the constables clutching their batons, the civilians using whatever might make a fair weapon.

It should have been terrifying for William.

It wasn't.

There was something delicious in that attention, something intoxicating. William swung the sack of heavy iron spikes at them. He shouted at them in a voice that was half working-class, half country gentleman. Tongue behind his teeth, he grinned at them, bobbed on the balls of his feet in a boyish, delighted sort of way, even as he crushed their skulls.

"C'mon you sons of bitches. You wanted William the Bloody. C'mon—"

Someone hit him from behind with something very hard, a shovel or a pickaxe. His upper back exploded in a sensation of painful throbbing, and he wheeled around to his attacker. Not a delighted boy any longer, but a slavering animal. Gold eyes and naked fangs. The man's throat he laid open with a swift slash of teeth. The bloody body dropped to the cobbles at William's feet, ignored by him, once it was in its final death-throes.

The group around him gasped in horror at his animal face, and they scattered like so many frightened chickens. Some merely moved considerably back from him, others ran away altogether.

"It's a demon is what it is," someone said fearfully. "A murdering devil straight from the pits of hell."

"Fair close to the truth," William replied. He was panting for unneeded breath, his sense of delight back tenfold. The air around him stank of sweat and of fear.

He thought he had them on the run, but suddenly a flash of blue appeared in his peripheral vision, and he staggered back with the weight of a body crashing against him. The painful thud of a wooden baton striking his head and shoulders.

"It can be killed—" shouted the officer to the rest of the crowd. "It can—it bleeds—"

And the remainder of the group—those bravest of men—surged forward once again.

William's bag of weapons dropped to the ground, momentarily forgotten. Anyway, it was better this way. Nothing but fists and fangs to protect him; nothing but the cunning mind he had developed in the preceding weeks. Nothing but the carefully cultivated brutality that marked his new self. They backed him into the side of the building. There were so many of them, he had little choice but to back away when they pressed forward. But he wasn't afraid of them; he didn't care about the numbers. He didn't care about the blows that fell or the blood that streamed from his wounds. He didn't care about pain. The kill was the thing, the risk of it. The lovely, drunken feeling it gave him.

Someone cut him with a blade. Right at the throat. It might have slowed him, had it been very deep. Yet it was hardly more than a graze, a thin half-circle of blood beading at the edges of a shallow wound. He didn't know who held the knife, but he gave out a hoarse laugh and, remembering various bits of slang sometimes spoken by the servants, shouted: "Put a little force into it, ducky. Otherwise, the other blokes'll take you for a pouf." He pushed off the wall, forcing his way deeper into the crowd. They were beating him down. There were so many of them. They might have flattened his skull with their blows. The one with the knife might have slit his throat, sawed off his head. One of those wooden batons might have splintered and been driven into his heart.

He didn't care.

"How d'ya like it now?" someone demanded. Mad voice, mad eyes. The man had powerful shoulders and forearms, a smithy's iron. He used it well, all the time screaming at William. "How d'ya like it now, Spike? You can give it out, right good enough. Can you take it? My little daughter—"

"Bugger your daughter," snapped William. He kicked out, driving the arm back, but not quite knocking the iron from the man's grip. While he was focusing on the one person, another grasped him by the back of his coat, slinging him back into the brick wall. The iron battered his back and shoulders, then. When he turned around, it struck him on the head, right over his temple, and his vision blurred.

"You know your daughter's last words?" he asked the blacksmith. He backhanded the man with a force that set him staggering. "She said I could fuck her if I let her go!" He had no idea if that were true of not, but someone had said it; it might have been the blacksmith's daughter.

"You son of a—did you interfere with her?" demanded the father. William gave a hoarse laugh.

"Course not. I only knicker the good-looking ones—"

A lie. He had never raped anyone. But it sounded good, and it achieved the desired results. The blacksmith took another crack with the iron, and the rest of the men fell on William, knocking him to the ground, beating with fists and weapons. The blacksmith kicked William's ribs and belly, all the while hammering him with the iron. Someone had tripped over his sack, earlier, and the spikes had skittered across the rain-slick cobbles. One had slid within arm's reach, and William snatched it up. He stabbed blindly, driving the sharp point into any exposed body part within his range. Regardless, he realized that he was losing the battle.

He didn't care about that, either.

Dimly, over the roar of the crowd, there was a sound of horses' hooves clattering across the cobblestones. The men hastily scattered as a black coach drawn by two chestnut horses dashed into their midst. Some of the slower men were knocked to the ground; one became caught under the wheels. The carriage door was flung open from the inside, and a hand thrust out, grasping William by his shirtfront and pulling him into its depths.

It was Angelus, of course.

He threw William onto the bench seat opposite him. The door slammed and the driver whipped the horses. The coach rocked violently as the men outside flung their bodies against it, grappling to seize the door-handle, the horses' bridles. They were calling William by name—by all the ones given to him by the newspapers. They were calling for his blood. The driver's whip whistled through the air as he lashed the men that blocked his path. Within moments, the horses were carrying the coach down the street at a full gallop.

Somewhat dazed by the suddenness of it all, William pushed himself up into a sitting position. Across from him, sitting in a row, were Angelus, Darla, and Dru. The first two looked furious, but Drusilla was smiling at him with a complacency that was almost pride.

William wiped the blood from his face and then licked it from his fist. "How'd you find me?" he asked. His voice sounded strong, but his limbs were trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline. He had not eaten, that night.

"Pure chance!" Angelus bit out angrily. "There was a wedding—we happened to be driving by. You stupid ape! Are you incapable of learning anything—?"

"Guess your lesson didn't stick, after all."

He stretched his arm across the back of the seat. When Drusilla moved to sit by his side, he propped his muddy, bloodied boots on the cushion between Angelus and Darla.

"Nobody talk anymore. I'm right knackered."

And to his shock, no one did talk after that.

Dru nestled into his side, and he rested his cheek against the top of her head. When he drifted off to sleep, it was with a smile on his face. He finally knew who he was.

And it wasn't William.

* * *

* * *

In Yorkshire, he called himself Spike. Not only because he liked the name (although he did, very much) but also because it had been given to him. He had earned it through his own actions. It was a name that was famous in London, a name that meant something.

He wanted it to mean something in Yorkshire, as well.

Since the last "lesson," he and Angelus had spoken very little. William supposed that he should be grateful to his grandsire for saving him back in London. When he finally asked Angelus why he bothered to rescue him, the answer was short and vague: "Because you're mine to protect, as is Dru." Perhaps William should have felt gratified to know that the other vampire did care for him, in some twisted way, but he didn't feel anything of the kind. Although the seething hatred would fade with time, he would never again look at Angelus with adoration or even affection. Now, with the defilement still fresh upon him, the closest thing to emotion that he could muster was hot loathing.

Beyond loathing, there was also rebellion. It was the rebellion that Angelus feared—rebellion and the loss of control. When they exited their coach in Yorkshire, the first thing Angelus did—actually, the second thing he did. The first thing was to kill the coachman, despite his promise not to if he delivered them safely. But the second thing Angelus did was to grab William by the lapels of his coat and shove him into the dirt.

"I want no more of this carousing," he ordered tightly. "You'll do as you like in Yorkshire, but you'll do it quietly and without drawing attention to yourself. This isn't far enough from London for them not to know you. If you spoil this for us, I will kill you."

William sat in the dusty street and listened to this command, but he hadn't the slightest intention of obeying it. In fact, once Angelus had departed (after the obligatory kick to his grandchilde's ribs) William set out to do just what Angelus directed him not to do. This was partly to spite him, but also because William simply enjoyed the attention.

This time, Drusilla accompanied him. They strolled, arm-in-arm, down the narrow street, and William was pleased to have her along. He liked her again. She had cared for him during his recuperation from Angelus' abuse, and cared for him so devotedly that he finally began to understand her. She had destroyed the book because she loved him, and because she was jealous that he did not return her love in the manner she wished him to. Once he had calmed down enough to think this over properly, it was almost understandable to him. If Elizabeth had been in love with another man…if she held some little keepsake from that man, even as she entered into a relationship with him, then William would have wanted to destroy the keepsake as well. He wouldn't have done it, of course, as Drusilla had. But she was mad, and that was not her fault. Although he would never forget her misdeed, he eventually forgave her for it, and that made things much easier for both of them.

"Where are we going, my William. Are you planning to be naughty again?"

"Naughty as they come," he answered, the words carefully spoken in his new accent. An accent he was still struggling to perfect and that, so far, it did not sound the least bit like Drusilla's, not even to his own ears. Still, it sounded like _something_, and it made Dru giggle.

"William is a dark knight, now," she said contentedly. William grinned, at first. Then, he frowned thoughtfully.

"Spike," he said. "It's Spike, now."

"Spike," she echoed softly. It sounded good to his ears, although she pronounced it "Spoik." He was so pleased with her that he pulled his arm from hers in order to drape it around her shoulders.

"D'ya like it?"

"It's lovely and sharp," she answered. Which, given the origins of the name, struck him as wildly funny. He laughed all the way to the end of street.

The last building to the right of them was a tavern, a rather decrepit building of crumbling stone. Yet a tavern meant men, and lots of them. And lots of men meant quite a good battle. They stopped in front of the building and looked at it appraisingly.

Spike gave Dru a little squeeze before releasing her. "What do you think, pet?"

"Malt liquor and mortality," she answered immediately. "They haven't an idea of what's coming."

"My thoughts exactly. Want to come along?"

She shook her head. "It's your game, but I should like to watch."

Spike pushed opened the tavern's rickety door and waited until Drusilla passed over the threshold before he entered. The barman looked up when the dented brass bell rang, and, almost immediately, he shouted at them.

"No women in here! This is a respectable establishment."

"Sod off," Spike answered.

He pulled out a barstool for Dru to sit on, and then turned to meet the wrath of the tavern's owner. He met it by picking up a second barstool and smashing the man's face in with it.

* * *

* * *

In the span of an hour, they were all dead.

Well, perhaps not _quite_ all of them. Some had fled out a side door while Spike was preoccupied with the rest. These escapees gathered the other men in town, and, much in the manner of their London counterparts, they found their courage in numbers.

Spike had no idea that he was about to be assaulted by an angry mob. Angelus and Darla had found them walking down the street after the massacre, and now the four of them were on their way to a hotel that Angelus had run across while hunting.

"You've got blood all over yourself, William," Angelus grumbled to Spike as they walked. "What have you been doing?"

Spike glanced at Drusilla, and they both laughed.

"Just having a pint in the local pub, actually."

Angelus pulled up abruptly, at that. The already dour expression on his face had become furious. He grabbed Spike by the shoulders and yanked him forward, so close that their faces almost touched.

"What in the fucking hell is that supposed to mean?"

Spike opened his mouth to answer him, but at that very moment, a group of irate Yorkshire men appeared on the street behind them. They were holding all manner of weapons: shovels and axes, torches and even pitchforks. The latter of these struck Spike as amusing—he had always assumed their use by an angry mob was just an invention of literature. He choked back a burst of inappropriate—and somewhat hysterical—laughter, and looked to his grandsire, wondering what they were to do next.

However, for a moment, Angelus just gaped at the approaching mob. When his eyes shifted back to Spike, they were filled with disbelief.

"God_damn_ it, William," he said.

* * *


	35. Chapter ThirtyFour

**Chapter Thirty-Four **

For an instant after Angelus spoke, none of them moved. It was as if they had been hypnotized by the movements of that swiftly moving multitude, each one of them staring, rooted to the spot. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on the noisy, angry crowd, but Angelus was gaping at Spike, disbelief still plain on his face.

After a moment, the spell broke and Darla suddenly clutched Angelus' arm. "We have to get away from here," she said urgently. "We cannot possibly fight all of them. There are too many."

Angelus shook his head slightly—not in opposition to her suggestion, but as if to clear it of some confusion. He was still looking at Spike.

Spike, however, was hardly even aware of the gaze, just as he had hardly been aware of the angry, incredulous words that had come a few minutes before. He was watching the horde of furious men, and there was no fear on his face. There was no fear in his heart. His blue eyes lit up—a little boy on Christmas morning—and he took an eager step forward, as if in preparation to meet his opposition halfway. However, before he could stir more than that single step, Angelus grabbed him by the forearm and threw him into the side of the nearest building.

"You stupid tosser. Have you gone insane?"

Spike yanked his arm from Angelus' grasp. "Piss off," he said angrily. "This is my decision, my fight."

"And your death!"

"Then it's my death and none of your bloody concern! And while you stand here rabbiting on, they're coming up on you."

"Angelus, he's right," Darla hissed. "If we stay here any longer, we're as good as dead. Let's move on!"

"And what? Leave him here to get himself killed?"

"And why not?" she demanded. "He's gotten himself into this mess, and now he's dragging the rest of us along. Do you honestly think we can keep him with us much longer without all of us being staked?"

Still, Angelus hesitated. He looked at Dru, who was beaming at her childe as if overjoyed by his act of defiance, of stupidity. It was the screaming of the crowd—their daunting proximity—that finally made up his mind for him. He staggered backward, his eyes darting briefly between Spike and the mob, before he turned to flee, Darla and Drusilla following close at his heels.

Spike watched them go, and when they were out of sight, he turned to face his adversaries, who were, by now, close upon him. He grinned at them arrogantly, his legs spread and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He was a small figure, standing there, and not necessarily an intimidating one. He did not, at first, show them his fangs.

By the time he did, it was too late for them.

Truly, he did not expect to win the battle. There were so many of them. Perhaps not quite so many as in London, but these men were rougher and seemed more accustomed to fighting. They had more weapons and better ones. They beat him, stabbed him, and burned him. They were as brutal as animals—as brutal as Spike. Yet he wouldn't back down from them. He didn't care if they destroyed him. Perhaps, in that most private recess in the back of his mind, he wanted to be destroyed. Death in the glory of battle and all that. And not only glory, but peace, as well. Peace from the restlessness, peace from the nagging pain in his heart. But even despite the desire for self-destruction, he was unwilling to easily yield to friendly death. He fought because it was honorable to fight, and because he was not a coward.

He did not expect to win, but he won anyway. Those not killed finally fled from him. They left not to escape but to regroup. They had gone, but he understood they had not surrendered, and the thought pleased him. He drank of those left dead, and then, after a quick stop by the ruined pub for some bottles, he ambled down the same path by which Angelus had escaped. His body was battered, each step another stab of pain. Yet there was a strange mixture of disappointment and elation, of swelling pride. He had beaten them down. They would come again and again, yet he could defeat them each time. There would be no welcome death, after all. No release from the hollow ache where something wonderful had resided and then been pulled away. But there was the notoriety and there was the fear. There was the exhilaration of the struggle, of the danger, and, ultimately, of the kill. It was not everything, but it was enough to keep him going.

His keen senses allowed him to find the others without much effort. They were several miles away, hiding inside the musty confines of an abandoned mineshaft. Something in it amused him. The great Angelus was afraid of defeat, afraid of death. His were battles already half-won, the prolonged torment of beings weaker than himself. Darla's kills were more immediate but no less effortless than those of her lover. And even Drusilla…

He waded into the murky depths of Angelus' rage fearlessly, knowing, now, that his grandsire was stronger, but that _he_ was more cunning. He was aware of what might be coming, and he was fully prepared to face it.

This time, Angelus was more calculated in his anger. He did not, at first, attack his grandchilde, but instead watched as Spike crossed the limited width of the shaft. The lanterns lining the filthy plank walls were lit, casting a dim glow, and there was a wooden crate upturned onto its side. Spike pulled out his bottles and lined them neatly along the edge of the crate, all the while ignoring the older vampire as if he were someone of little consequence. It was only after he finished the task that he finally turned to the other three with a smirk.

"Miss me, did you?"

Like a spell breaking, Angelus' forced calm left him. He crossed the space between them in two strides, grabbed Spike by the frayed lapels of his dirty coat, and flung him into the wall. He held him there by the throat, the pressure of his big hand enough to crush an ordinary man.

"Perhaps it's my advancing years that makes me so forgetful, William. Remind me. Why don't we kill you?"

Spike choked against the painful crushing weight at his windpipe. Nevertheless, he rasped cockily—almost incoherently—into his grandsire's angry face.

"Sp—i—ke."

Angelus raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

He released Spike's throat abruptly, with a roughness that hurt almost as much as the choking had. Spike gasped and coughed, trying to open the constricted—and completely unneeded—airway. He put a hand to his throbbing Adam's apple and glared at his persecutor.

"It's _Spike_, now. You'd do well to remember it, mate."

"I'm not your mate," snapped Angelus as the younger vampire moved past him. "And when did you start talking like that?"

Spike grabbed one of his bottles and uncorked it, took a long drink to sooth his swollen gullet. "Guess Dru must be rubbing off on me," he said finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Angelus gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, as if counting to ten. Finally, he hissed with admirable patience and restraint: "You little blighter. That isn't even a Cockney accent."

"Who says it's not?"

His grandsire snorted derisively. "North London, at best."

Spike looked to Drusilla, who said almost apologetically, "North London."

"North London," echoed Darla smugly.

"Bloody hell," Spike cursed under his breath. Of course, he had known that his accent was not the same as Drusilla's; but he had thought he was getting close, at least. Still, he had his pride. He said aloud, "Well, right then. North London. That's just what I meant it to be."

Darla made an impatient noise, clearly growing annoyed with Spike's arrogance. "We barely got out of London alive because of you," she bit out angrily. "Everywhere we go, it's the same story. And now—"

"You've got me and my women hiding in the luxury of a mine shaft," interrupted Angelus. "All because 'William the Bloody' likes the attention. This is not a reputation we need!"

Spike watched as the other vampire paced the length of the wall restlessly. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said mockingly. "Did I sully your good name? We're _vampires_."

"All the more reason to use a certain amount of finesse!"

Spike scoffed at that.

"Bollocks! That's for the frilly cuffs and collars crowd. I'll take a good brawl any day."

Angelus stopped his pacing. He stalked nearer to Spike, menace growing in each step he took. "And every time you do, we become the hunted."

Off to one side, Darla murmured in a singsong sort of way, "I think our boys are going to fight…" But both men ignored her comment, as well as Drusilla's nonsensical reply. Their attention was locked onto each other.

The intention was clear in Angelus' dark eyes, but this time Spike didn't back down from it. Rather, he pushed himself right into the fray, determined not to let himself be dominated by his grandsire. Not physically and not mentally. "Yeah. You know what I prefer to being hunted? Getting caught."

"Yeah, that's brilliant strategy, really. Pure cunning."

Angelus reached out, his fingertips following the edges of Spike's open coat in a gesture that was half-caress, half-threat. The overwhelming panic that followed it was instinctual, immediate. Spike threw off the offending hands with more agitation than anger. "Sod off!" he snarled.

The shocked and almost uncertain look on Angelus' face, afterwards, was like an intoxicant to Spike. Daddy wasn't such a collected one, after all. He jabbed a finger at the older vampire and laughed in his face.

"C'mon, when was the last time you unleashed it?" he asked. Provocative, now, rather than fearful. "All out fight in a mob—back against a wall—nothing but fist and fangs. Don't you ever get tired of fights you know you're going to win?"

"No. A real kill, a good kill, it takes pure artistry," argued Angelus. "Without that, we're just animals."

Spike snorted. "Poufter!"

At that, Angelus lunged forward and grabbed him, slinging him onto the floor. There was a shovel leaning against the rotten planks and Angelus snatched it up, breaking it against his knee so that the handle became a long, jagged-ended stake. He shoved it against Spike's chest.

The sharp point of the splintered wood pressed into him, piercing his shirt and his skin, drawing a thin circlet of blood from the tender flesh above his heart. Spike hardly even felt it. Already teetering on the brink of hysteria, he now fell into it completely. He stared up into his grandsire's livid face and let loose a burst of rapid-fire giggles.

"What? You think you're gonna put it to me again? Have another go; get yourself a real knee trembler? Go ahead and try it. Last time is all you're gonna get out of me."

"William…" Angelus' voice held a warning note, but Spike was too far around the bend even to care.

"You should've used your thumb last time," he mocked him. "Would've been bigger, you know. L'il bit wider, li'l bit longer…would've gone a l'il deeper. Would've hurt more—"

The stake pressed tighter against him, pushing through to the muscle. Angelus clenched his teeth, his hands shaking with his fury. Despite the murderous look on his face, Spike felt no fear. Something in him told him that the older vampire would not kill him.

And he was right.

After a moment, Angelus wrenched his hand back, dropping his arm to his side so that the tip of the broken shovel handle tapped against the floor. He chuckled bitterly to himself.

"You can't keep this up forever," he said finally. "If I can't teach you, maybe someday an angry crowd will. That…or the Slayer."

Spike pushed himself up on his elbows, cocking his head to watch Angelus as he turned away dismissively.

"What's a Slayer?" he asked.

* * *

* * *

Angelus would have nothing more to do with him after that, and Darla never talked to him at all other than to insult him. It was Drusilla who finally explained about Slayers. Spike drank from his bottle and sat cross-legged on the dirty floor, leaning his back against the wall, while Dru perched on the crate and told him the story.

It was an interesting one. One girl, chosen in every generation, one girl in all the world. Spike couldn't figure it. How could one girl make a difference at all? There must be hundreds—thousands—of other vampires. Maybe even more, maybe even millions of them. Not to mention the various other types of nasties that were wandering about. He hadn't met any himself, not yet, but Angelus had told him. How could one little girl take them all on? How could she even try?

He said as much to Drusilla, who looked absolutely horrified by the suggestion. Slayers were…well…they were _Slayers_, she insisted. They were fearfully strong; they were relentless. They were called to the part of the world where they were needed most. Their lives were short and brutal, but not at all meaningless. Hundreds of vampires met their deaths at the hands of one Slayer. Only the strongest, the most cunning, the greatest of them all ever succeeded in killing a Slayer.

_The greatest of them all…_

Intrigued by the very notion of it, Spike asked, with deceptive nonchalance, "So, where's the current Slayer call home?"

Drusilla shook her head. She didn't know. Beyond this, she was growing tired of the subject. She wandered off to find Angelus. But Darla was standing nearby, brushing flecks of coal dust from her skirt. She was staring at Spike with keen interest.

"Italy," she said softly.

He looked over at her, surprised. Generally, Darla only spoke to him in anger, or derision. Mostly, she avoided speaking to him at all, preferring to use Angelus as a go-between. She considered Spike beneath her.

"What?" he asked her now.

"The current Slayer. She's in Italy. Rome, if I'm not mistaken."

Spike's eyes glazed over, considering it. He mouthed the word to himself, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips: "Rome."

"Lovely city, Rome," said Darla. Her tone was gently persuasive, her blue eyes calculating. "Full of history."

"I know," answered Spike distractedly. "I've been there." In his William days, of course. The grand tour of Europe. All the well-bred boys did it after university.

"Of course, it isn't something even to be considered," continued Darla. "Drusilla, surprisingly enough, had a rare moment of lucidity. It's much too dangerous. Practically no one faces a Slayer without her destroying him …"

"Practically..." echoed Spike.

"…but the ones that do are famous."

He smiled to himself at that.

_Famous._

* * *

* * *

He tried to push the thought from his mind. Bleeding stupid was what it was. He was barely more than a fledgling. There was no point in pretending otherwise. He might be cleverer than the average; he might be talented. But he was nothing so exceptional to assume he could beat a Slayer. Not from what Dru told him about them. He shouldn't even bother thinking about it.

The problem was he couldn't stop thinking about it. The very notion of it…the fight…the fame. The death. Hers or his own; it was all the same to Spike.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture her. Little Italian girl—according to Darla she was no more than sixteen or seventeen. Long dark hair, peasant clothing, eyes like onyx. Lithe and smooth, her skin the color of light coffee. Quick as a viper and twice as dangerous.

Spike lay on his coat spread out on the hard rocky earth. None of them had beds, or even a change of clothing; they had left London in such haste. Darla had been bitching about this since the moment they arrived in Yorkshire. She was so disgusted by the primitive conditions she would have braved the dangers of the townspeople in order to find a featherbed and a hot bath, had she been able to do so. However, the bright noontime sun presented a much greater problem than a group of angry men milling about the town. He heard her tossing fretfully on her own makeshift bedroll and muttering under her breath.

Drusilla was off somewhere, fucking Angelus.

Mindless of the sharp pieces of flint digging into his upper back, Spike smiled to himself. Behind his eyelids was the picture of her, spinning like a top, one slender leg kicking out at him. Fast, but not so quick that he could not dodge it. Her dark eyes widened with surprise at his agility, his resourcefulness. The worthy opponent.

Of course, it was all fantasy. He couldn't really attempt it.

Could he?

His eyes flew open at the thought. Death didn't frighten him, or pain. The fight was the thing, and she would give him the best one of his life…of anyone's life. If she killed him, what of it? He would have had the chance to dance with a legend. Perhaps there was no fame to be had in it. According to Dru and Darla, the girl had probably killed hundreds of his kind by now. But there was an honor to it, death at the hands of the great one. Not just as some idiot caught unawares in a cemetery late at night, but as a warrior seeking her out.

Still, there was the issue of the rest of them. Angelus would never let him go, not willingly. But what did that matter anymore? Angelus couldn't control him; Angelus couldn't force him to stay. Darla would be more than happy to see him off. And Dru—

What about Dru?

The thought gave him pause. He didn't need them anymore, he realized. He was past the point of needing the protection of his family. He was past the point of wanting it. But Drusilla…she wasn't the same as the rest of them. It wasn't just that she was his sire. In fact, that had practically nothing to do with it. Fledglings often left their sires, after a time, just as sires frequently abandoned their offspring once they grew tired of playing with them. But Spike genuinely cared for Drusilla. He loved her. She wasn't his sweetheart, but she was his friend. More than that, she needed him. If he left her, she would be alone again, subject to Angelus' neglect or his abuse, such as his mood might be. Spike owed her better than that. She had been as good to him as she knew how, and those things she did to hurt him, he knew she did unknowingly. He couldn't leave her. Better that she be brought down by a Slayer than by Angelus' cruelty.

Would she go with him? He wasn't certain. She had a deep connection to her sire, though sometimes Spike had the feeling there was more hate than love between them. It was Angelus who had taken everything from her, Angelus who left her nothing but an empty, confused child. Yet he had also manipulated her and made her need him. Would she leave Angelus if Spike asked her to? And if she wouldn't…what then?

He pushed himself up off the floor, unwilling to wait any longer to find out. Angelus had Dru up against the wooden wall of a tunnel some distance down from the main part of the shaft. Spike sat down on a rock two or three hundred feet away, his back turned to them. He waited until they had finished, and then grasped Drusilla's elbow as she was passing by him. When she paused beside him, he stood up.

"Take a trip with me," he whispered.

She looked bewildered. Angelus did that to her; he confused her poor mind even more. A go with him, and she wasn't right for hours afterward. Still, she seemed to be struggling to understand.

"A dive into dark seas…"

"Well, not quite. To Rome." He saw her blank look and added gently, "Italy. Next to France, you know. Little bit to the south of it."

"All of us are going?"

"Just us, pet. The two of us together, alone. What do you think?"

Slowly, she shook her head. "Angelus…he will be very cross with me if I leave."

Spike felt a flash of irritation at that. Still, he knew it best to keep his temper in check. His voice dropped low and persuasive.

"You don't have stay with him, Dru. You don't have to—to be with him. Not anymore. He's a bloody liar and a bastard. He uses you." He gripped her arm a little more tightly and added, "Who takes care of you, kitten? Does he? Does he ever give a damn about any of us except Darla?"

A soft light came into her eyes, and he knew she was finally beginning to come around. "You take care of me. My William…my Spike. My shadowy knight. I knew you would take care of me, and you do."

"Bloody right, I do. So, will you come with me?"

She raised the arm he was not holding and placed her fingers lightly against the side of his head. Half a second later, her eyes widened. "What have you planned, Spike? What's that blistering in your thoughts?"

Spike hesitated. Should he tell her? But before he could make up his mind, she guessed. Guessed or used that uncannily sharp perception of hers. She pulled back her hand abruptly, as if scorched by whatever she saw blistering his mind.

"The Slayer!"

"The Slayer," he whispered back, grinning.

* * *

* * *

They left the very next night. Angelus thought they were gone hunting; Spike never told him otherwise. They just walked away, easy as you please. Walked away and began the long journey into destiny.

* * *


	36. Chapter ThirtyFive

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

He had dreamt of Italy, once. Just dreamed, of course. One dream of many that concerned her. Elizabeth. The very epitome of all he did not have.

Early on in his mother's illness, the doctor had suggested he bring her to a warmer country that had less rain. Anne always refused to leave England, of course, and he had not pressed the issue. Yet later, after Elizabeth arrived in their lives, and after she—

Well, he couldn't bear thinking of that.

But he had thought of Italy. So many times, lying in his bed, he had imagined it.

He had fantasized about bringing both women to Italy. He would bring his mother for her health, of course; but he would bring Elizabeth so that he could marry her there. Just the two of them together, alone and exchanging their vows in some small vine-covered church. He would teach her to speak Italian, her pretty head bowed over her primer, her smooth brow furrowed in concentration. He would take her dancing in the marketplace, her bright hair like a patch of sunshine in the sea of dark Italian women. He would live with her in a rented villa with stone floors and enormous windows that looked out onto a bed of roses. In the evening, they would sit on the balcony, dine on spicy chorizo sausage and drink _sangiovese_ wine. At night, he would make love to her on linen sheets.

Now, stretched out in the back of a rickety hay-wagon traveling southward toward the city, Spike closed his eyes, and the dream came back to him. It was a fantasy so intense he could almost feel her beneath him; he could almost taste her mouth, hear his own gentle voice murmuring into it: _Il mia amore, la mia vita…tutta la mio…_

But she was dead, and his voice didn't know how to be gentle anymore. With a mighty effort, he forced the thought from his mind.

Beside him, also stretched out in the soft hay, was Drusilla. Even before they left England, she had begun to cry. Homesick she was, although for what, he did not know. He couldn't bear to see her cry, couldn't bear to see any woman he cared about cry. He would have been willing to take her back to Angelus if it stopped her from crying. But she didn't want to go back to Angelus, and Spike didn't know what else to do. In an attempt to cheer her, he had given her a doll to make up for the collection she had been forced to abandon in London. The toy was the spoils gained from killing a shopkeeper expressly for that purpose. It was brown-haired and porcelain-faced, dressed in frilly white. Dru called it Edith, and when she talked to it (as she often did), she always affixed "Miss" to the name, as if suggesting some type of formality to their relationship.

Now, she abruptly sat up in the wagon, clutching her doll to her chest and making a soft whimpering noise. At first, he thought she'd had a nightmare. But when he questioned her, she said pitifully, "I miss England. These people are different; I can't understand them when they speak."

"Ah, it's all right pet." Spike sat up, too, and pulled her against his chest so that he could stroke her dark hair. "Doesn't matter if you don't know their language. Not a lot of talk involved in killing them, anyway."

She nestled into him, dropping her head back to rest in the hollow of his shoulder. "Do you love me?"

He wrapped both arms around her shoulders, then. "'Course I do, love. You know that."

"But you love _her_ more. I can feel her in you. You think of her…even now."

_You can't hide anything from Drusilla, best not even to try._

Angelus' words echoed in his head, and the lie that had begun to form on his tongue never made it into the open air. He sighed.

"Can't help it, pet. She was important to me; I can't just stop thinking of her because I've changed. Doesn't mean I don't love you."

_It just means that I can't fall in love with you,_ he added to himself. He knew Dru felt that, too. He knew she heard the words in his head, just as she always did. But for some reason, she fell silent and did not pursue the matter further.

After a moment of quiet, Spike traced her collarbone with his fingertips and whispered into her ear, "Do you like your new pretty?"

"Like cakes at teatime," she answered softly, and cradled the doll more closely to her breast. For the first time, he noticed the small strip of silk she had tied across the doll's face, over its mouth and around its head.

"What's that for?"

Dru pouted briefly. "She talks to me so I can't sleep. Sometimes she says things I don't want to hear. She wishes to tell secrets."

"What kind of secrets?" he asked her, intrigued. But she refused to tell him.

"The kind that need not be told."

"But you like her anyway?"

"Oh, yes."

"Good girl."

His eyes shifted to the road ahead of him, to the city that had just become visible in the far distance. "Look at that, Dru. Almost there. Not long now."

"Until you find the Slayer?" she asked.

"Until I find the Slayer."

* * *

* * *

Rome had changed, somewhat, since the last time he had been there. Yet despite the differences, and despite the length of time that had passed since then, Spike had little trouble finding his way around. They rolled into the city just before daybreak, and he let their driver go free. He wasn't sure why he did this, except that the man, who spoke no English, had asked nothing of them in exchange for the transportation.

They found refuge from the impending dawn inside a tiny apartment on the _Piazza Navona_. The rooms were small and cramped, the décor expensive but in appallingly bad taste. Spike deposited himself on the hideous brown sofa and listened dispassionately while Drusilla did away with the elderly Anglo residents. She was cruel to them, but Spike considered they deserved it. Who papered their walls in white-dotted lilac anyway?

Still, despite its remarkable ugliness, the flat did have two things in its favor: it was central to the city and it had large windows that overlooked the square. Although he had virtually no information on the Slayer, something told him that she would prowl the square at night, searching for her prey. The hoards of people in the piazza would be sure to attract vampires. And where there were vampires…

There were cemeteries around the city, of course. Dozens of them. No doubt, she spent a good deal of time in them, as well. Yet the square appealed to his poetic nature. The beauty of the place, the history of it. It was famous, and so was she. What better place to fight her? He could lay her body out upon the smooth stones beside the _Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi_. Or, if he lost, his ashes could be carried away across the plaza; they could settle in the clear water of the fountain. Each image was appealing in its own way, and from the moment they entered his consciousness, he determined that the battle should take place in just that manner.

It was daylight, now, and there would be no opportunity to seek out the Slayer until nightfall. Drusilla was asleep in the small bedroom, her doll in her arms and a dead man stretched across the carpet beside her. Spike felt restless, unable to settle down. Sleep was elusive to him at the best of times, and in the advent of his excitement, it had become downright impossible.

He prowled around the narrow confines of the apartment restively, fingering the closed drapes, examining the gaudy knickknacks that lined the mantle. There was a small cabinet piano on one side of the room—the only truly attractive piece of furniture in the place. Almost beyond his own will, Spike found himself standing before it. He stroked the smooth wood, tracing with his fingertips its ornate, beautiful carvings. He lifted the lid to reveal a row of polished keys, the black sharps and flats stark against the ivory naturals. It had been months since he had even seen a piano, let alone played one. Yet his fingers were graceful and supple as ever, when he touched the keys with one hand. The notes were coaxed from the instrument with expertise and an intentional slowness, and he accompanied the words with a hoarse whisper.

_Leise flehen meine Lieder…durch die Nacht zu dir…_

It was like probing a sore tooth, agonizing and irresistible. When he realized what he was doing, Spike grew angry. He slammed the lid shut and kicked the piano savagely. He'd not known her six months before she passed away…would he never recover from her death? Would this pain ever leave him? Bloody hell, if she saw him now she would hate him for all he had done. He wasn't the same man any longer; he wasn't a good man. Drusilla was the only one who could love him now. So, why couldn't he let Elizabeth go? Why couldn't he forget her?

Furious with himself for his weakness, Spike stormed across the room to the bedroom door. Dru lay curled into a ball in the middle of the large bed, her long hair fanned out across the white pillow. Before they left England, he had replaced her clothing. Her nightdresses were now soft muslin, white and chaste. The sight of her pushed his anger away, leaving him strangely melancholy. He kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed with her, stroking one long sleeve gently. When she opened her eyes, he nuzzled at her neck.

"Be sweet to me, pet. Love me a little while."

And Drusilla did. But afterward, when sleep finally came, he dreamed of _her_, and when he woke up, his cheeks were stiff with dried tears.

* * *

* * *

He poured all his energies into hunting the Slayer. The task was a distraction for his bewildered mind, his aching heart. It was also an obscene amount of fun: the stalk, the anticipation of the kill. It took Spike ten days before he finally found her, but when he did, she was worth the wait. She was not exactly what he had expected. He had pictured a small girl, almost frail in appearance. Instead, she was quite tall, at least two inches taller than he was, and her body was far from that of a child. Lots of curves, she had, and in all the right places. Her face was mature, as well: her cheekbones well defined, and her eyes long-lashed and very large. There was something world-weary about her expression, and her full lips did not smile.

She was almost stunningly prepossessing, but that wasn't what interested him. At one o'clock in the morning, he stood in the square and watched her fight a vampire. Not some awkward fledgling, this one; he obviously had the experience of many years behind him. The Slayer wore a long red skirt that flowed loosely around her legs, and no petticoats. Her peasant shirt showed a hint of her breasts, and her narrow waist was free from corsets. The unrestricting clothing meant she could fight easily, and she moved like a dancer, spinning and leaping, limber as a rag. It fascinated him.

The vampire leaped for her, clearly planning to knock her to the ground with the force of his body. Yet she slipped underneath him even as he dropped, and plunged the stake neatly into his heart. There was no wasted movement in her kill, and not a moment's hesitation. The vampire exploded in a cloud of dust that sifted onto her clothes and hair. She shook her head in disgust, and wiped a hand across her ash-coated mouth.

Spike stepped out of the shadows, smiling a little as she startled at his approached. _"Ciao il mio bella,"_ he greeted her cheerfully.

She rolled her eyes and sighed, muttering under her breath: _"Eh, non altro."_

He couldn't help but laugh at that. _"Nessuna cortesia affatto!"_

_"Perchè spreco cortesia sul vostro genere?"_ she retorted. Really, she was quite clever, almost witty. Spike had not expected that. Cunning and strength he had anticipated, but not wit. He felt a sudden desire that she should like him, that she should consider him worthy of her attentions.

_"Tentativo di essere gentile almeno,"_ he implored her in a playful—almost mocking—tone. His blue eyes danced at her, and her pretty eyebrows rose in a calculating sort of way.

_"Gentile a voi?"_ she asked incredulously, and raised the hand that held her stake. _"Allora pregherò per voi quando la cenere cade."_

Thus began the messy and altogether enjoyable task of fighting her. Spike did not make the first move; he waited for her, as a gentleman should. She whirled suddenly, one skilled foot catching him sharply across the temple. The blow knocked him backwards, and he almost fell into the fountain. He righted himself at the last moment and darted past her. He tried to catch her from behind, but quickly found out that it was impossible. She was a blur of color, evading his attacks easily. The carved wooden stake in her hand almost found his heart several times, and it was by sheer luck that he managed to duck away. She was lithe and lissome, and the movements of her assault were delightfully smooth. It was like dancing, and nothing terrible could happen until the music stopped.

Not that Spike remained unscathed in the course of their combat. Several times that slender leg or those small hands found their mark, and within minutes, he was battered and bleeding. Battered and bleeding, but by no means defeated. For himself, he managed several decent blows. One backhand was particularly well executed, and he sent her reeling against the side of the fountain. Game face on, he lunged for her, his fangs bared and hungry. But at the last moment, she rolled away, flipping herself from her back to her feet with almost no effort at all. They did not speak to each other again, after their first exchange, for they were both panting heavily—she from lack of breath, he from excitement.

Around and around they went, until finally she had him pinned. Flat on his back against the paving stones, her slim body straddling his waist and a stake pressed into his chest. All along, he had thought that if he reached this position, he would not fight it. He would look death squarely in the face; he would meet it without fear. And there was no fear. Yet the acceptance of death had left him. It was the thrill of the battle that did it. In the flush of the fight, he had found something to give meaning to his existence, and he didn't want to surrender that meaning just yet. He wanted to fight her again. He wanted to fight her until he won and she was his…the trophy to prove his worth.

He bucked beneath her, pulling his knee up underneath her buttocks so that he could throw her off him. She braced her fall with her hands, pushing herself up almost before she touched the ground, back on her feet before he could even climb to his own. He staggered upright just as she jumped in front of him. He managed to knock her stake from her grasp, and it clattered against the stones some distance away. However, there was no opportunity to bite her, for she began beating him with such force that defending himself was almost impossible. Eyes, cheekbones, and chin all received the brutal attention of her fists as she drove him backwards against the fountain. He staggered over the low wall of it, fell arse-over-elbows into the cold water. The spray temporarily blinded him, but he managed to recover himself before she retrieved her stake.

Still, standing knee-deep in that cold pool, he realized that he would not be able to defeat her. Not that night. She had gained the advantage over him, and he knew she would not relinquish it easily. He was injured; he was exhausted. He hardly stood a chance against her. He grabbed hold of one of the fountain's statues and pulled himself up until he stood on the stone shoulders of a god. He leaped from the top of it and landed on the other side, such a distance away that even as she ran around to meet him, he was far ahead of her. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, and he did not run a straight path, but instead wove between buildings and pedestrians, food stalls and mule carts. She lost sight of him and fell back, and when he was certain that he was safe, he turned around and began a weary walk back to the flat.

He might have felt disheartened by his defeat, but he did not. He had faced a Slayer and survived; surely, that must mean something. He was not able to kill her yet, but someday he would be. He was prepared to wait until that day, to plan for it. He would face her again and again…and again after that. He would learn at the feet of the master. He would become a true warrior; and when he killed her, he would bow at the altar of her corpse and thank her for teaching him.

* * *

* * *

He saw her again after that night. Many times that spring he met her in the _Piazza Navona_, for he was unwilling that they should battle anywhere else. So frequently did they duel that she eventually began to come to the square for the specific purpose of finding him. They sparred verbally as well as physically, and although she never failed to claim victory in the latter, he could easily hold his own when it came to hurling insults. Her name, as he soon learned from the local nasties, was Emiliana, and she was not quite seventeen years old. She had been a Slayer for almost two years and in that time, she had battled demons far more formidable than Spike. She never failed to drive him away with her expertise, and several times when he showed her his heels in retreat, she might have killed him. Yet she never even tried. At first puzzled by this, he soon came to understand that it was due to her sense of honor that she allowed him to withdraw. She would not kill a fleeing foe. No sword or stake was ever plunged into an adversary's back at her hands.

He appreciated her principles; moreover, he respected them. He paid her the same courtesy, although that would not always be the case with subsequent opponents. But she was his first and somehow deserving of such deference. Even had the opportunity presented itself (though it never did), he would not have attacked her from behind. Perhaps this, as much as anything, was the root of their impasse.

Spike liked Emiliana, for all that he wanted to kill her. In fact, had his thoughts not been so consumed by Elizabeth, he might have developed a crush on that lovely young Slayer. As it was, he had a healthy admiration for her abilities, and he always looked forward to sparring with her. When she died in early summer of that year, he almost grieved for the loss of her.

She had not died in the flush of battle. Instead, she had been come upon by a demon—something ugly and brutal—while she was occupied with fighting a vampire. With a single swipe of a clawed hand, her skull was laid open, and word had it around Rome that she was dead before she hit the ground. The other vampires and demons in the area rejoiced at her ending, but Spike mourned the loss of his own chance at her. And he was angry. It was her birthright that she should die in a fair fight with an equal…not to be done away with by some lesser creature in a moment of distraction. So heartily did he resent this, he later went looking for said demon, fully intent on destroying it. However, despite his best efforts, he never tracked it down.

After that, Rome lost much of its appeal. It ceased to be a battlefield and became, instead, a tormenting bed of fantasies and regret. Without the Slayer and without _her_, what did he have left? Nothing but Drusilla, and poor Dru seemed an inadequate substitute for glory and passion. He would have left Italy, but he didn't know where else to go. Presumably, the new Slayer had been, but he had no idea where she might be. He asked Drusilla, hoping that her second sight might offer some clue, but it did not.

So, it went. And they might have stayed in Italy indefinitely had not something else occurred. One night in the late summer, after a long night spent hunting, Spike entered the cramped apartment to find it seemingly empty. It was odd, because Dru had not felt well that night, and he was bringing her dinner. He dropped the still-warm body to the floorboards and made a beeline for the bedroom, wondering if perhaps she was asleep, and did not hear his greeting. He was not halfway across the dark room before something grabbed him from behind. The trespasser pulled him up against its chest. And even though he could not see his assailant, Spike immediately knew who it was. He knew by the muscled arms that wrapped around his torso, their grip vise-like and their weight leaden. He knew by the scent of it and by the long, lank hair that brushed across his cheekbone when the invader tilted its head down to speak to him.

"Hallo, William," Angelus rasped into his ear. "Daddy's home."

* * *


	37. Chapter ThirtySix

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

For an excruciatingly long moment, neither of them moved.

Angelus' jaw came to rest at Spike's cheek, and the feeling of it was so familiar, so full of unpleasant connotations that it seemed—at least in the brief span of silence and motionlessness that followed—as if he was frightened by it. Perhaps he was. But he was no longer the timid fledgling he had once been, and he was no longer willing to be cowed. He listened to his own stilted breathing—to Angelus' lack of it—and he forced his body to relax.

"Can't say I'm thrilled to hear it."

"You'll be even less thrilled in a moment," answered Angelus, and although he didn't exactly laugh, beneath his harsh tone there was a hint of amusement. One big hand lay splayed across Spike's chest; the other rested low down on his stomach. The older vampire's touch was possessive, almost unbearably intimate if not altogether sexual. It took all the strength in him for Spike to hold his calm.

"Oh, yeah? Why's that? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I made it clear during our last row that you're not getting anything more out of me…or into me. "

Angelus hesitated, then. A pause so infinitesimal that it was almost nonexistent. But Spike knew him. Despite the antipathy between them, he knew Angelus probably better than anyone; he understood him. Therefore, he was easily able to take advantage of the opportunity that Angelus' indecision offered him. He forced the hands away from his body, pulled free of the broad chest. His intercourse with the Slayer had taught him something about speed, and he spun to face his grandsire so quickly it was almost as if he had been standing opposite him the entire time.

"Where's Dru?" Spike demanded. It was the question that had been on his mind since the moment those arms wrapped around him. Angelus shrugged with careless grace.

"You know, Darla and I found a lovely palazzo to use while we were in town. Much better, I tell you, than this rat's nest. You kept my Dru here? No wonder she was so glad to see us."

"I don't believe you."

"Oh, no? Well, you can go ask her yourself, once we're finished here. She's in your cramped cupboard of a lav. With Darla." He smirked. "They're taking a bath."

Immediately, Spike started to pass around him, moving in the direction of the bath; but Angelus grabbed the back of his shirt and held him back. "Ah, ah," he said. "Didn't I tell you to wait until we're finished here? We've got things to discuss, Willy."

His jaw clenched. "Spike."

"What's that?"

There was a challenge in Angelus' tone, and Spike rose to it without hesitation. It was almost reflexive, the rage that followed. He turned so quickly that his shirt tore as it pulled out of Angelus' grasp. Without fully comprehending what he was doing, Spike backhanded him with all the force in his arm. A jolt of pain shot through his knuckles as they connected with his grandsire's cheekbone, and the older vampire lurched backward. He would have fallen had the high back of the settee not caught him.

"I said, it's _Spike_, now."

He stood with loose-limbed elegance, his sharp eyes belying the casual pose. He was anticipating Angelus' next move, and he hadn't long to wait. Like a bull charging, the other vampire lunged for him. Spike readied himself for the attack, his hands outstretched. But what he had forgotten was the weight of his grandsire, the bulk of muscle and thick bone. The striking force of Angelus' big body was enough to send the smaller vampire stumbling backwards onto the floor. Angelus also tumbled forward, unable to stop the momentum that carried him. He would have fallen onto Spike, if Spike had not quickly thrust one leg upward. His foot caught Angelus in the hollow beneath his breastbone, and he kicked out as hard as he could, redirecting the force of the descent and sending Angelus neatly over his head. Arse over elbows, Angelus rolled twice before he caught himself, pushing his boots into the floorboards and flipping himself upright. When he turned around, Spike was already on his feet, staring at him.

"Something wrong, old man? Because from what I remember, your aim used to border on decent, and now you can't even hit a cow's arse with a banjo. Are all those years finally catching up to you?"

Angelus' eyes flashed gold in response, his fangs descending over his bleeding lips. He fell forward again, this time grabbing Spike by the forearms, swinging and releasing him with the ease of a man throwing a sack of meal. Even as he reeled backward into the wall, Spike struck out with one leg, sideswiping Angelus on the right side of his head. Both of them ended up on the floor: Spike on his back, Angelus on his side. But Spike recovered first. He grabbed an ugly plaster statue of Pan from its equally ugly pedestal and began beating Angelus with it. He was driving for the other vampire's head, but despite the large target it presented, Angelus was able to dodge rapidly enough to avoid the blows, and the weapon struck his ribcage instead. Spike delivered several good hits before the other vampire managed to hook a leg around the back of his ankle and jerk him to the floor.

"_Bloody_ hell!" he cursed. On his back once again, he just barely managed to roll out of the way and escape Angelus, who was trying to pin him down. In order to do this, he had to drop his statue, and a second afterward, Angelus snatched it up.

Unable to regain his footing before the other vampire caught up with him, Spike grabbed the leg of a small decorative table. Still supine, he swung the table sideways just as Angelus leaned to hit him with the statue. Again, he was aiming for the other vampire's head, but Angelus wasn't in the right position for it. Instead, it struck the side of his outstretched arm, knocking the statue out of his hands.

"Still in human face, Willy?" Angelus mocked him, not bothering to retrieve his weapon. He dropped to his knees and grabbed Spike's shoulders, adding, "Still forgetting your place in the world?"

In response to this, Spike forced his torso upward and head-butted the snickering vampire. It had the desired effect: Angelus tipped backward. However, it also left Spike with a throbbing pain in his forehead.

"Goddamn it," he swore, rubbing the injured area even as he struggled to his feet. "Is your skull made out of bloody granite?"

Angelus pulled himself upright. Like Spike, he gingerly touched his head. His forehead was bruised, but it was the lump on his temple from where Spike kicked him that seemed most serious. His fingertips came away from the side of his head streaked with blood, and he grimaced. Nevertheless, his arrogance remained intact.

"Ah, William. You're still soft as shite, aren't you? How long do you think you can keep this up? You know you can't win against me."

Spike snorted. "That a fact? Well, c'mon then and show me. I've got no other plans."

The yellow eyes rolled in frustration, and a sigh escaped the bloodstained lips. Angelus rolled his shoulders impatiently—"If you insist"—and took a step forward.

Prepared to meet his adversary halfway, Spike moved forward as well. On the third stride, something rolled beneath the sole of his boot, and when he looked down, he saw that it was a piece of the table he had hit Angelus with earlier. Apparently, one of the spindly legs had snapped off on force of impact and landed some distance away from them. Now, Spike stepped over it as if he did not see it there. However, he paused just after and waited for Angelus' strike. When it came, he bent swiftly at the knee, reaching behind him and seizing the splintered leg in his fist. With a swift, underhand movement, he thrust the ragged tip of the wood into Angelus' flesh.

He might have killed his grandsire had his aim not been off. Instead of his chest, the sharp point plunged into the muscle of Angelus' shoulder. The pain of it seemed to shock the older vampire, and he stumbled backwards. The corpse Spike had brought for Drusilla lay to the far right of them, and in his blind retreat, Angelus tripped over one of its outstretched legs, falling to the floor with great force. He tried to climb to his feet while at the same pulling the shaft from his shoulder. In the latter, he succeeded; but before he could completely regain his footing, Spike kicked his legs out from under him. Angelus jabbed the bloody stake at his chest blindly, but Spike grabbed the shank as well. For several minutes, they struggled for it; but in their haste, their hands were fumbling and clumsy. The stake slipped out of both their grasps and clattered to the floor, rolling some distance away.

Angelus rolled onto his stomach and reached out to retrieve the weapon, but Spike took a more aggressive approach and rather than dive for the stake, he dove for Angelus himself. He straddled his grandsire's waist and leaned down before he could react, pulling one muscled arm up and around until it was pinned securely against Angelus' lower back. Then, he slid down, tangling his legs around Angelus' long ones, in effect rendering them motionless.

Angelus bucked upward, but he was weakened from loss of blood, and he could not break free. Spike lay across him, the length of his body just slightly forward of Angelus' so that his mouth was pressed against the older vampire's ear.

"How'd you find us? Huh? Darla tell you? Not without a fight, I'd wager. She was glad to be rid of us. The bitch. But you—you just couldn't bear to let us go, could you? You couldn't bear to give up that control." Spike pressed his face closer, at the same time giving Angelus' arm a brutal jerk. "You might be able to control Darla; you might even be able to control Dru. But you can't control me. Not now. I thought I'd made that clear."

A sardonic smile flitted across his face, and his voice dropped to a whisper, deadly and calm, as he added, "Seems like you weren't paying attention, that first time. So, I think we'll have us another lesson, now."

* * *

* * *

He felt Angelus' body twitch beneath him. A subtle movement but one that was rife with fearful expectation. Fear. It bled power, and he—Spike—drank it in.

"Oh, what's the matter, _Daddy_? Can't take it like you give it?"

He forced his free hand beneath his grandsire's prone body, taking hold of the waist of his trousers roughly. The intoxicating sense of the other vampire's fear strengthened at the contact. But with it came something else, something that was almost—

Arousal?

Curiosity?

And suddenly Spike knew that his attempt at intimidation wasn't working exactly the way he had expected it to. It wasn't the physical aspect of it that unsettled his grandsire; it was the lack of control over the situation. The alien feeling of someone he once perceived as weaker than himself suddenly in the position to dominate. However, judging from the sudden jump of swollen flesh against Spike's wrist, it wasn't just fear that held his grandsire in thrall.

The mere thought of it was appalling to him, and he pushed himself up and off Angelus' body. His intent had certainly not been to give the bastard another opportunity to explore the uncharted realms of homosexual love. He hadn't even planned to follow through with it; he just wanted to give the other vampire a taste of what it had been like for _him._ The humiliating sense of helplessness and degradation. The horror of it.

Obviously, Angelus viewed things a bit differently.

On his feet now, Spike delivered a vicious kick to his grandsire's ribs—an intentional mirroring of Angelus' past behavior toward him.

"You honestly think I'd put it to you? Sorry to disappoint you, mate. But even if I were inclined to take a male companion, you'd be the last fucking person on earth I'd pick."

With that, he turned away. He was halfway to the small convenience room on the other side of the flat when suddenly Angelus' voice called out from behind him. Cocky even in defeat and no less convincing because of it, he said, "You'd like to think you don't need me anymore, William. But you're wrong. Because I have something you want."

Spike paused, mid-step, and turned slowly toward his grandsire. "And what could _you_ possibly have that I would want?" His tone was scathing, yet he could not entirely hide his curiosity at the idea.

Perceiving this, Angelus smiled slightly. He rose to his feet before answering.

"I know the location of the new Chosen One," he said.

Carefully indifferent to this revelation, Spike leaned against the wall and reached for his cigarettes. It wasn't until he lit one and took the first drag that he murmured: "Do tell."

"She's in the Netherlands."

"_Where_ in the Netherlands?" Spike demanded irritably. "Which province?"

"Not so fast," said Angelus. "First, I've got a proposal for you."

"A proposal," echoed Spike. He sidled closer to his grandsire. "What kind of proposal, huh?"

"A wager. You and I will travel to the Netherlands together, and the first of us to kill her will get the prize."

"And that would be—?"

"Drusilla."

Spike snorted dismissively. "And why the buggering hell would I bother to wager for something I've already got?" he asked.

"You really are some can of piss, Willy. You think you own Drusilla? I'm her _sire_. She might be with you now, but if I tell her to leave with me tonight, you bloody know that she will do it. She doesn't have a choice."

Spike sighed. "Could be right, at that," he admitted in what seemed to be a defeated tone, and Angelus smirked.

His self-satisfaction was short-lived, however. In the next moment, Spike had thrown a vicious punch that set him staggering. Before the older vampire could recover himself, his grandchilde picked up the twice-discarded statue of Pan and began to beat him with it.

This time, his weapon found its intended target.

When the worst of his anger had passed, Spike finally threw down the statue. Angelus' hair was matted and wet with blood, and he wasn't moving. Cautiously, Spike prodded at his grandsire's ribs with the toe of his boot, but it was obvious that the other vampire was out cold. Satisfied, Spike pulled the limp, long body up against him, bearing most of its weight on his shoulder. With effort, due to the difference in their heights, he managed to drag it across the room to one of the big windows that looked out over the square. His intent was to open the window and then toss his grandsire out of it, but when he reached for the latch, Angelus slipped off his other arm and fell forward against the frail glass. It shattered beneath his weight, and Spike winced and then laughed as he heard the distinct sounds of the body falling to the streets below.

"Sorry, mate. But I don't make wagers."

* * *

* * *

Whatever they might have been doing earlier, by the time Spike reached the convenience room, Darla and Dru were merely sitting together in the large tin washtub. Chest-deep in the water, Darla was leaning against the slant of one end, and Drusilla was sitting slightly forward of her. Darla was washing Dru's back in a way that was neither tender nor sexual; rather, it seemed almost as if she were bored, her mind focused on other matters. When she saw Spike enter, Darla dropped her cloth and stared at him, aghast. And angry.

"Get out of here!"

Completely ignoring her, Spike launched himself over the ledge of the tub. A wave of warm water lapped out onto the floor as his body landed. He was still fully clothed, and his thin wet shirt clung to his chest as he pushed himself upright, sitting on the opposite end of the tub from the two women.

Naturally, the bathtub wasn't large enough to comfortably seat three people, and with an angry cry, Darla started to rise. Before she could exit the water, however, Spike propped his booted feet against the wall behind her. His legs sprawled on either side of her body, just grazing against the tops of her shoulders and completely blocking her in.

Her mouth hardened, and her expression made it clear that she was not at all impressed by his blatant show of disrespect.

"I suggest you remove your legs, William, before I lose my patience and break both of them off."

Already drunk off his success with Angelus, and unwilling to yield before her while Dru was watching, Spike merely sneered back: "Like to see you try it."

She made an abrupt movement, maybe in preparation to make good on her threat. Then, she stopped. Though her tone was cool, her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as she asked: "Where is Angelus? I assumed he would have dealt with you by now."

"Sorry to disappoint you, love. He didn't do that so much as—" He paused, fighting back a grin. "Well, he stepped out for a moment. Had to drop in on some of the locals, I think."

Darla looked suspicious. "What is _that_ supposed to—"

But Spike ignored her. He was looking at Drusilla.

"Surprise, pet."

Dru's dark eyes widened at him, a hint of a smile around her lips. "Have you got a surprise?"

He folded his arms behind his head and grinned wryly. "I've got the new Slayer. All wrapped up pretty and waiting for us."

Eyes heavy-lidded and mouth smirking, he looked the picture of insolence, lying there. He felt every bit the victor this evening and every bit the Alpha male. It was not until a fierce pain erupted in his nether regions that he began to rethink his position in the hierarchy of the bathtub.

"Didn't I tell you to remove your legs?" Darla asked.

Shocked, his eyes traveled from her face to her hand, which now held the greater portion of his genitals in an iron grip.

"Right. Guess I'll be lowering my legs, then."

He dropped them, and she stood up, naked and streaming water. Spike clenched his jaw, glaring at her as she unhurriedly stepped from the bathtub and began drying herself with a towel.

"Bitch."

Her head snapped up. _"What?"_

Rather than answering, he arched his eyebrows in a blatant challenge. She snorted and shook her head. "It is very fortunate for you that I don't enjoy wasting my time."

Still naked, a bundle of clothing in her arms, she sauntered out of the room. Spike stared after her with hatred in his eyes.

It was Dru who finally broke through the hostile silence some minutes later. "Where?" she asked.

He looked at her. "What?"

"The Slayer. Where is she wrapped up?"

"Oh." Something in her empty tone soothed his burning ego, and he slouched back against the wall of the tub. "She's someplace in the Netherlands, I think. Little Dutch girl with her finger in the dyke, trying to hold back all the nasties. I thought we might pay her a visit, flood her with our attention, so to speak."

Drusilla just looked at him for a moment, her dark eyes completely blank. Finally, she said childishly, "I don't like Italy."

"No? Well, do you like the Netherlands any better?"

"I might. I shouldn't know until I am there."

"Then you're willing? You don't want to stay here with Angelus?"

A quick glance at the open door—the room into which Darla had retreated—and then Drusilla answered tentatively: "I want to be with my Spike."

His heart softened at that. He felt gratified not only by the notion that she wanted to be with him, but also because it proved, yet again, that Angelus was a ponce who didn't know his arse from his elbows. Spike reached for her, gently drawing her forward by her arms so that she lay stretched across his chest. "Glad to hear it," he said.

She kissed his ear and his jaw, skillfully working her way around to his mouth and then lingering there. "Shall I go on?" she murmured against him. "Tell you how much I wish to stay?"

"Won't complain if you do."

She slid down his body, her hands dipping beneath the water to caress him and undo his fly buttons. When she put her mouth on him, Spike dropped his head back against the narrow edge of the tub and closed his eyes.

Really, it hadn't been such a bad night, for all that.

Preoccupied in this fashion, neither Spike nor Dru heard the door slamming as Darla left the flat. She was looking for Angelus, and she found him. However, when she finally did, the sun was up, and she had no choice but to drag him into the nearest building, a bookshop to one side of the apartments. By the time they returned to the flat the following night, it was too late for retaliation. Spike and Drusilla had exited by way of the back door, and they were already well on their way out of Rome.

* * *


	38. Chapter ThirtySeven

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

Delft, Holland  
1881

As cocky as he had been, rejecting Angelus' proposal for information, Spike soon came to regret his decision. He'd never been to the Netherlands before, and he realized upon arrival that its scope was far vaster than his atlas had led him to believe. Not only that, but it belatedly occurred to him that he did not speak Dutch and that the vampires of the region—who could have helped him in his quest to find the new Slayer—did. Sufficed to say, this did not make his search any easier.

He did discover, a few months into his journey, that she was somewhere in South Holland. Of course, as luck would have it, he was in North Holland at the time, which fact only served to annoy him further. Still, the information did significantly narrow his search, though it hardly offered him an exact location. He assumed—incorrectly—that since Emiliana had resided in Rome, this new Slayer must also base herself in one of the larger municipalities of her country. Amsterdam seemed a likely place to start, and when this proved fruitless, he moved on to Rotterdam and finally, to Den Haag. It was in the latter that he finally found someone who could speak his language. Well, not _his_ language, exactly, but at least a common language. And in an exchange of broken French with a demon who looked like an overgrown reindeer with algae on its head, he finally learned what he needed to know: the Slayer was in Delft.

Spike knew little to nothing about Delft, other than the fact that it was set by canals and it was the home of Johannes Vermeer, a 17th century painter who had only found fame twenty or so years before. Neither of these facts was particularly useful to him, and by the time he actually reached the city, Spike's temper was wearing thin. He thought to himself that if he did not find her here, then he would burn the city to the ground for spite. He also thought that if Dru whined one more time about not liking the way Dutch people tasted, he would abandon her in the charred ruins after said burning. He even went so far as to tell her this, although the empty threat did nothing to curb her complaints.

It wasn't really Dru's fault, his sudden wretchedness of spirit. His mood had fluctuated wildly in the first months of his search: days or weeks of euphoria, followed by anger, followed by melancholy. There was no accountable reason for it, only that he was growing tired. Tired of the journey. Tired of a game where all the rules were set in his favor. He wanted a challenge; he wanted the Slayer.

Perhaps if their expedition had not taken so long, Spike's expectations of the new Slayer would not have been so high. Yet he had searched for the better part of a year to find her and in that time, he had built up in his mind the vision of their first meeting. As with the Italian Slayer, this vision was idealized and almost wholly unrealistic. He saw her, again, as a small woman. Not necessarily petite, but at the very least, fine-boned and slender, graceful. His assumptions of the Dutch Slayer were drawn not only from his own imagination but also from his dealings with Emiliana. He expected this new creature to be just as pretty, just as fluid, and just as sharp as her predecessor had been. In other words, his standards were enormous.

That first night, he had no opportunity to seek her out. They were barely in sight of the city when the sky began to turn gray with approaching dawn. Spike cursed at their bad luck, but Dru tugged at his arm eagerly, like an excited child. He turned to where she was pointing, and far to the left of them, on the very outskirts of the city, stood a small cottage. A man was standing in the dooryard, his suspenders down and his boots unlaced. He was yawning. Behind him, the top half of the cottage's door was opened inward.

They left the road and walked down the gentle, weedy slope into the man's yard. He startled at their approach, his sleepy eyes widening with surprise. It was, after all, quite early for visitors. He rubbed a calloused hand over the back of his head and spoke to them questioningly, but as it was in Dutch, Spike had no idea what it was he said. At any rate, it made no difference. His animal face dropped like a theater curtain, and before the frightened man could react at all, Spike's hand was on his throat.

"I know you don't understand me," he said quietly. "All the better for you, because I'm going to kill you. But first…"

He dragged the struggling man nearer to the cottage door—through which he could detect the scent of several people. As he drew closer, he could see them moving about in the dimness of the lamplight, preparing breakfast. A woman and two little boys. The woman was plump and ruddy; the boys were younger versions of the man whose throat he now held. Spike rapped sharply on the doorframe with the knuckles of his free hand.

"Oi!"

The three people within the cottage all jumped and then spun around to look at him. The woman immediately began screaming in terror at his devil's face, but the boys were curiously quiet, their jaws opened wide, their cheeks pale, their eyes stupid with fear. They stared at him even as their mother shoved them violently behind her. She spread her arms as if to shield them, and then jabbered a string of hysterical words Spike couldn't understand. Somewhere to the back of him, he could hear Dru laughing softly.

There was no point in trying to talk to the Dutch woman, and Spike didn't bother. Instead, he nodded his head toward the opened door and the room beyond it, motioning with his right hand to indicate that she should invite him in. At first, she did not understand what he meant. When she finally figured it out, she shook her head violently. The morning sun was already climbing the horizon, and Spike didn't waste time asking her again. Narrowing his yellow eyes, he wrenched her husband's head to one side, and bared his fangs to the exposed throat. The woman shrieked and words like pleading spilled from her throat. Behind her, the boys were still unnaturally silent. Spike raised his head and made the motion toward the door again, more aggressively this time. And this time, the woman obeyed him.

"_Kom binnen_," she whispered, falling back fearfully when he did. Her rough hands groped at her back, reaching for her sons, and Spike could see from the look in her eyes that she was trying to pull them from behind her, to send them running. They did take a few staggering steps forward, but Drusilla walked into the room at that moment, and she kicked both halves of the Dutch door shut behind her.

What happened afterward was no more than the usual. Just mindless feeding. Spike killed the man and drank of the woman, while Drusilla took the two boys. The first of them she killed quickly and drank the blood, but the second of the two—the youngest—she laid out on the rough plank table and tortured.

After he finished with his own meal, Spike left Drusilla to her game. He wasn't particularly bothered by what she was doing, but he had no desire to watch it either. He wandered through the house on a self-guided tour. There wasn't a lot to it. Just the front room, a narrow, dark bedroom, and a lean-to that held a cook stove and some dry goods. It was very loud in the front room, what with Dru's playing, and Spike lingered in the relative quiet of the lean-to. There was a jar of pears on one of the dusty shelves, and he took it down and inspected it. The contents seemed good, so he settled himself down on the cold ledge of the stove and opened it, pulling out pear slices on the blade of his jackknife.

He hadn't eaten more than three or four when a sharp scream sounded from the front room. Annoyed, he extended one leg and still seated, kicked the rickety door shut, muffling the sound of the boy's torment. However, before he could resume his eating, another sound startled him. This one was much softer, and it came from within the lean-to.

Spike paused, a pear halfway to his mouth, and he listened intently. At first, nothing. Yet he waited carefully, and in a few moments he heard it again, a sound like a sigh. Hoarse and so very quiet that had he not been a vampire, he likely would not have heard it at all. However, being a vampire, it wasn't difficult for him to locate the source of the sound. There was a battered brass coal bin beside the stove on which he sat, and as he strained his ears, Spike was absolutely certain that the sound came from inside it. He was mystified. Carefully setting down the pear-jar, he jumped off the edge of the stovetop and onto the dirt floor. He stepped a bit nearer to the bin and leaned over it, listening. And this time, he could hear its heart beating.

Without making a sound, he pulled the lid off the bin, sliding into his demon-face as he did so. The creature within jerked its shoulders but did not otherwise move, nor make a sound other than the one he had heard before—something he could now easily identify as terrified gasping. It was a girl. A very young girl—not more than three or four—poorly dressed and dirty from sitting in the coal. Her round baby-face was framed by dark blond hair, and when she looked at him fearfully, he saw that her eyes were hazel and full of horror. None of this held any meaning for Spike, beyond the fact that she was blond and therefore despised. And although he had never killed a child before, he reached in to grab her small arm, fully prepared to do so now. However, before his fingers closed around the small limb, something struck him, compelled him to stop. An odd tingling sensation, as if some invisible onlooker had suddenly rested its mouth on his ear and whispered, _don't._

And he didn't.

Instead, he stared at the girl, his head tilted slightly to one side. The demon's mask slid away and her eyes widened at the sudden change, her pale cupid's-bow lips parting as if to speak, or maybe to scream. But Spike was acutely aware of Drusilla's presence in the front room, and he shook his head at the girl, pressing his index finger to his own mouth in a gesture for her to be quiet. She obeyed instantly.

Another brief moment of consideration and silence, and then he turned on his heel and walked out of the lean-to. Part of him expected her to try to follow—or at least to flee—but she didn't. When he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw through the open door that she was still in there, kneeling in the coal.

In the front room, Drusilla was just finishing her morning's work. Spike grabbed her by one blood-slick arm and pulled her to him. He put her up against the wall nearest to the bedroom door and took her roughly; and even as he did so, he thought that he could hear a scuttling sound, something passing through the room at their backs. But his mouth was to Dru's ear, muttering into it, and she heard nothing, noticed nothing.

Later, while Drusilla was sleeping, Spike looked into the lean-to.

The girl was gone.

He knew she would be.

* * *

* * *

The strange interlude in the lean-to left Spike uneasy. Perhaps because it was the first time, since Matthew, that he had hesitated in killing anyone. He was a vampire and that was what vampires did. Kill things. True, he had never killed a child before. Young women, girls after a certain age, yes. But not a small child. It had never seemed odd to him before, because, given the late hours in which he hunted, he rarely came across children at all. Occasionally, Dru took it upon herself to find one, and the results were always particularly gruesome; but they had never greatly disturbed him. Generally, he just ignored them, went on his own way, to his own kills. It had never occurred to him that he might find that practice—

_Wrong?_

—because he had just taken for granted that nothing seemed wrong anymore.

Still, as uncomfortable as he was with the idea, Spike did not allow it to weigh too heavily on his mind. The very next night, he had pushed it aside entirely, having turned his thoughts, single-mindedly, to the Slayer.

Her name was Maertge, and she was not hard to find. In fact, he stumbled across her that very first night, as he walked down the narrow, water-flanked street in search of his dinner. He wouldn't have known her, at first. Nothing about her spoke of Emiliana, or of his mental picture of what a Slayer should look like. She was short and lean, but so thick of bone that on first glance, she appeared overweight. Her hair was a frizzy, carroty red, and her face sallow and pockmarked. Her eyes were russet-colored, too small for her broad face, and they were hard. Whereas Emiliana seemed weary with the world, Maertge was angry at it, and it was not difficult to see that she focused this anger on the demons she fought.

There would be no dancing with this one.

Still, she was the Slayer, and his target, and he would not allow his disappointment to color his desire. Ugly as she was, she was the Chosen One, and her death would be no less of a victory for him.

He did not watch her as he had watched Emiliana. He didn't want to. There was no admiration in him for her. He felt no pleasure in seeing her fight. He waited only until she had dispatched her current adversary. Then, he attacked her.

There was no finesse in his assault, no planning. She saw him coming a meter away and struck him with all the strength in her thick arm, knocking him to the cobbles forcefully. For a few seconds, he could only lie there, stunned. It wasn't until he saw her swiftly leaning toward him, a roughly hewn wooden stake in her grasp, that he pushed himself upright. Then, of course, came the battle.

He did not kill her that night, naturally. He had hardly expected to. Still, he was surprised by the magnitude of it, the wounds she inflicted, the narrowness of his escape. Maertge was as brutal as a vampire, as brutal as himself, and that he had not expected. Truth be told, she almost killed him that first time, and the injuries sustained left him ill and confined to bed for the next three nights. When he stubbornly left the safety of the house on the fourth night, he was still limping on what must have been a rapidly healing—but still very broken—ankle. He caught her near a church in the Papist corner, surprised her as she was fighting a wiry young fledgling. The other vampire fled as the Slayer turned her attentions on Spike.

They did not talk as they fought; they spoke different languages and there was no point in it. But Spike thought regretfully back to his nights with Emiliana, when the battles were verbal as much as physical, and he redoubled his efforts to kill this Slayer. There was no pleasure in sparring with her. Best to get it over with quickly.

Of course, that was easier said than done. Killing her. In fact, there were several moments that evening when Spike was certain _she_ was going to kill _him_. He did not usually resort to using weapons; it seemed cowardly. But he was injured and Maertge was relentless, and it was either use a weapon or allow himself to be killed outright. He wasn't afraid of death, but he'd be damned if he'd bow down to it at the hands of this coarse, overblown young woman. There was a short wrought-iron fence surrounding the church, and with a vicious pull, Spike managed to yank one of the iron railings out of the ground and free from its moorings. Too long for a spike and too short for a spear, it nevertheless offered him decent protection from her heavy-handed assaults. He thought he was doing rather well, up until the point she decided to use one of the other railings to her own advantage.

She moved very quickly for someone so squat and thick-boned. Before he could realize what was happening, she had a rail in her hand, and before he could do anything about that, she was walloping him on the side of the head with it. He staggered backward away from the blows, but she followed him, steadily driving him in a narrow circle so that, in just a moment, he was up against the broken fence. Against and then over it, his torso bent backwards, the sharp iron points pressing into his aching muscles.

A trickle of blood ran down Spike's temple and into his eye, but he barely noticed it. His head was pounding as though she were still beating him, and with each throb, his vision clouded. There was blood in his ears, muffling his hearing. The metallic clatter of Maertge's rail hitting the cobbles was dim and far away, and he could barely see her through the blurred halo of light behind his eyes. But he could feel the heat of her body as she pressed into him, one strong hand clamping down on his throat to hold him, although he wasn't trying to escape. A slight rush of warm air as her free arm drew back and then fell forward to plunge her stake home. And then—

Nothing.

For an instant, Spike's vision cleared enough for him to see the stunned look in Maertge's eyes as her body was suddenly ripped away from his own. She was pulled off her feet and against the body of another. A barely-detectable crunch of bone as her head was yanked violently around, snapping her neck, and then she dropped to the cobbles with a sickening thump.

Spike braced his arms on the broken fence, pulling himself as upright as possible, as the Slayer's killer approached him. His vision was hazy again, spotted in light and dark, and he could not immediately see the face before him. Yet even without that, he found he recognized the assassin by the heavy, strong hand that clamped on his shoulder, by the cool, bloodied breath, and the low, rasping voice that murmured into his ear.

"Thought I'd find you here."

Angelus.

Exhausted as he was, Spike found strength enough to pull away at that. He stumbled sideways, clinging to the tops of the railings. Blood welled in his battered lungs and made him cough as he said: "Jesus Christ."

"Not quite," answered Angelus. "But thanks for the sentiment."

"How the bleeding hell did you—" Another bout of violent coughs, but Angelus pieced together the rest of the sentence easily.

"How did I find you?" He snickered. "Always the dim one, aren't you? Who was it who told you where to find the Slayer? The only damned wonder is that it took you as long as it did to find the right city. I've been cooling my boot heels in this place for almost a year."

Muttering an indistinct response, Spike forced himself off the fence. His knees threatened to buckle without its support, but at least it gave him the appearance of having some strength. He clenched his hands into weak fists and glared at Angelus' indistinct form with bleary eyes. Angelus, meanwhile, only snorted derisively.

"What's that, William? Didn't quite catch it."

And Spike said plainly: "Sod off."

He turned his back on Angelus, then. Slowly and very painfully, but his meaning was clear. Angelus was beneath his notice. He wasn't afraid.

A soft sigh from behind him—"Perisher!"—and then Angelus' hand came down across the side of his already-injured head. The full force of the blow fell on the lump over his temple, and there was a sudden explosion of color behind his eyes. His legs buckled and the last thing he saw, before he fell into unconsciousness, was Angelus' grimacing face.

It was the last time Spike would see his face for seventeen years.

* * *

* * *

He awoke to pale dawn. No sunlight as of yet, but the promise of it in the soft glow of blue on the horizon. His head was aching, crusted with blood, and his ankle felt freshly broken. When he shifted, the muscle of his shoulder burned, and it did not take him very long to figure out why. There was a stake in it, sunk all the way through the muscle and past the bone.

His trousers were undone.

For the moment choosing to ignore the latter, Spike reached for the stake. A soft pressure moved his fingers aside, however, and when he squinted, he could see that the smeary white shape that knelt beside him was Drusilla. Her own slim hands closed over the wooden shaft, and Spike screamed and cursed into the darkness as she wrenched it out.

Afterward, he lay panting on the stones, in too much pain to move. He gasped, asked through gritted teeth, "Angelus—?"

He couldn't make out her face, but her voice was sad when she answered quietly: "He wanted I should leave with him."

"But you didn't."

"My place is with you."

She leaned across him, kissing his jaw, the side of his head. Her tongue was cool, soothing to his injuries, and Spike closed his eyes and sighed.

"Did he hurt you?"

"Oh, yes. I enjoyed it quite well."

_Okay…_

He opened his mouth to ask exactly _how_ Angelus had hurt her and why it was so enjoyable, although he was quite certain he really did not want to know. But before he could speak, Drusilla startled next to him and whispered urgently.

"We must go now, Spike. The sun…"

He rolled his head to the side, staring up at the sky beyond the edge of the city. Pale peach with streaks of blue, the sun a creeping sliver of bright red. He groaned.

"Bugger all. Help me up, pet."

He draped an arm across her slender shoulders, and Drusilla wrapped her arm around his waist, pulling him to his feet. He was little more than dead weight against her, but she was almost as strong as Angelus and bore the burden effortlessly. They were too far from their own house to bother trying to make it back there before the sun rose, so they took the first refuge they could find: the rectory beside the church.

Spike dropped onto an armchair that stood just inside the doorway, while Drusilla made quick work of the three priests. She threw the limp body of the first one to him, and he drank, grateful for the warm, healing blood. The crucifix hanging around the man's neck didn't give him a moment's pause. He didn't speak until he had drained his vessel dry.

Then, he asked: "You know what, pet?"

She looked up at him over the torn neck of the third priest, the question in her eyes. Spike wiped his bloodied hands on his shirtfront, reached down to fasten his still-undone fly.

"I think I'm bloody well done with Slayers, for the time being."

* * *


	39. Chapter ThirtyEight

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

Romania  
1898

He had never been a great believer in Fate, not in any higher force or all-knowing being that controlled the universe like some omnipresent puppet master. Truth be told, he hadn't believed in much of anything since his mother first developed her cough, and he'd publicly denounced religion and God in the middle of communion at the Church of All Saints. Some vague faith in the divine could have returned to him in his relationship with Elizabeth. If she'd stayed—if they'd married—it almost certainly would have. He would have gone down on his knees and thanked God in all His incarnations for allowing him that gift. As it was, however, he had convinced himself that life—and unlife—was little more than a series of meaningless events connected only by the people who were affected by them. Even Dru's second sight struck him as something caused more by coincidence than any relationship with the Beyond.

Still, it was delightfully convenient. So convenient that one night in the late autumn of 1898, he actually began to wonder if there was something behind it.

It was Dru, after all, who wanted to come to Romania, to that specific spot deep in a wood at the southwestern edge of the Carpathian Mountains. She was drawn to it, she said. A voice behind her eyes begged her on. Spike didn't argue with her in the matter. He rarely denied her what she wanted, and, anyway, he really didn't give a damn where they ended up.

They had arrived only that night and made camp near a riverbank, against the edge of a clearing inside the forest and underneath the shelter of an outcropping of rock on the mountainside. To the back of their camp was nothing at all for miles, nothing but animals and wilderness. Yet, just across the river, there was a commune of travelers, their brightly painted wagons forming a protective circle around a large campfire. They had been there for weeks, having settled in well before Dru and Spike discovered them. One of the draw horses had fallen ill and could not pull. To shoot or abandon the animal would have been a much greater loss than that of their time. Besides, there was the river, and a decent array of fish. They were content to wait it out.

Now the horse was almost well. Though still unable to pull, it had strength enough to follow them if tied behind the wagon. Preparations were underway for their departure the following morning.

Although the night was hardly more than well begun, Spike did not bother crossing the river to hunt. He had already eaten a woodcutter, and besides that, the journey had been a long one and he was tired. Dru looked as if she wouldn't have minded a bit of killing, just for the fun of it, but when Spike threw together a rough campsite, she made no attempt to leave him. Together, they stretched out on a bedroll made of several rough blankets, and Spike stared at the stars and considered the odd chain of events that had brought him to that point.

There had been little direction in their movements, these past seventeen years. With the Slayer removed from the equation, there was nowhere it was necessary for them to be. Aimlessly, they had roamed the whole of Europe, stopping for days or weeks—even months—in some particular spot that pleased them. They had become known for their savagery: Dru rarely made a kill without torturing the victim first, and Spike had developed the reputation of being a pyromaniac. They had laid waste to more than one small village, and word traveled fast. Newspapers called them "The Scourge of Europe," and fearful whispers about their exploits could be heard in hundreds of different parlors in a half-dozen different languages.

However, irritating though it was, they were not the only ones who could lay claim to the title, or the infamy. Because their patterns of destruction were somewhat similar, and because few people saw them in close proximity and lived to tell about it, Spike and Dru were often mistaken for Angelus and Darla. Not that any of their names were internationally famous—at least, not in civilian circles. The Watchers' Council that controlled the Slayer knew them well, and attempted to track their movements—but the Scourge of Europe was often reported to be in more than one place at a time. Angelus might be slaughtering nuns in a French convent, while at the same time Spike was setting fire to a brothel in Spain; there was no distinction made between them. Only in England, where he had first cut his teeth as a fledgling, was Spike famous in his own right. Rather, he was _infamous._

He liked that. And in his ever-growing self-confidence, the foolish fancies that had lain dormant for so long began to plague him once again.

The Slayer.

The sting of his last failure had long since left him, and being so often mistaken for Angelus had once again sparked his desire for notoriety. For true distinction. For worldwide recognition. With a slayer's death to his credit, the whole of Europe would know his name. With her blood on his lips, the Council would never again mistake him for Angelus. It was a heady thought, and given past experiences, a stupid one. Yet it would not leave him.

But the Slayer was not on his mind, as he lay upon his crude bed in the Romanian wood. She did not invade his dreams in a battle for death and glory. Instead, there was someone soft and warm, something alive whose blood he did not crave.

As the years slipped by, his waking memories of her had become muddled and not exactly reliable. The details of her face were harder to picture, though no less dear for it. She had become an indistinct vision of white and green and gold. Her features blurred not entirely, but enough so that he couldn't quite recognize them.

But that was only when he was awake.

Nights, she came less frequently, because he tended to dream less these days. However when she did come, she was almost alive to him, every feature thrown into sharp focus. In his dreams, he remembered everything, relived everything. The silky flesh that shivered beneath his touch…the curve of her back…the line of her collarbone…he remembered it all. The first night in Romania, his dreams were no different. Not really dreams at all but a projection of his most tender memories, like those moving pictures that were so talked about in London. Sometimes he remembered them afterward and sometimes he didn't. The times when he could remember, he wished he had not. This was his life now, and he did not need it impeded by recollections of the past one. Yet he had no control over it.

She was so close to him, that night in the forest. So close that it seemed that if he reached out in his sleep, he might have been able to touch her. So close that he could breathe her scent, the faint perfume of violets and the warm, sweet smell of her sex. In his dreams, he was kissing her there, the smooth skin of her inner thighs brushing against his temples, the silky curls tickling his nose. He had discovered, quite by accident, that she enjoyed it. On the night she promised never to leave him, he had taken her a second time, the very last time, and it was then that he found out. He hadn't known she would like it; in his general ignorance of the fairer sex, he never knew what might please her. It was only that he had wanted to kiss every part of her, mark each inch of warm, bare flesh as his own. If he'd had more time to explore, perhaps he could have brought her to climax. As it was, he nuzzled and kissed until she gasped and pulled him into her. He tried to be gentler, that last time, to make up for the clumsiness of their coupling earlier that evening. But he found he couldn't hold himself back from his desperation. And though it lasted much longer than before, he found it impossible to stop once he had started.

It had been lovely.

Now, dreaming of it, he was restless. He turned in his sleep, fists clutching at the edge of his bedroll as his body tensed, preparing to come right there in his trousers like some pathetic adolescent boy. Only before he did, Drusilla sat up beside him and shrieked, startling him awake.

"What, what?" he sputtered dazedly, groping about in the dark for a candle. She was on her feet in an instant, moaning and clawing at her face.

"It's come—it's come. I knew it was coming, but I didn't want to believe it—"

"_What's_ come? Dru, what did you see com—"

But she was already gone in a flash of trailing chemise and bare feet, streaking toward the river like a creature gone mad. He was still fully dressed but for his boots, which he pulled on while hopping awkwardly behind her. Bloody insane she was, he thought. She'd be carried away by the current.

But she wasn't. There was a ford some hundred feet down from their campsite, and she had found it blindly, instinctively, and plunged across. He followed her, dropping waist deep into icy water, his boots sucking at the muddy bottom. The gypsy camp on the far riverbank was in an uproar, gone as barmy as she had; maybe it was the reason for her madness. Torches and lanterns blazed brightly, and there was the wild keening of a woman, a dark, plump woman, clutching the bloodless body of a child to her chest. She was soon drowned out by shouts from a bearded traveler holding a ragged leather book, his crooked long finger stabbing at the air before him—

Spike pushed his way through the crowd in search of Dru, but he couldn't find her in the pandemonium. At the western edge of the forest something staggered past him at an ungainly run and it was—

_Angelus?_

"What the fucking hell are you—" he began incredulously. But Angelus ignored him, didn't seem to see him at all. He fell to his knees, fingers digging into the black soil as he shook his head from side to side and moaned.

"Oh, Jesus," he wept. "Heavenly Father—didn't want—didn't mean—"

"Didn't mean—" Spike echoed in bewilderment. He heard Darla's voice from somewhere behind him and turned quickly, thinking she was speaking to one of them. But no, she was standing in front of the bearded man, talking rapidly in a frantic tone he had never heard her use before.

"You took him from me—you stole him away. You gave him a soul!"

Spike's eyes widened, darting from Darla to the still-hysterical Angelus. "Soul!" he exclaimed under his breath. "A _soul_? Bloody God—"

The gypsy looked at Darla dispassionately, knowing her strength and not at all afraid of it. "He must suffer as all his victims have suffered," he said in broken English, his voice calm and hard in the bedlam of the camp.

"That is no justice!" Darla cried. "Whatever pain he caused to your daughter was momentary—over in an instant—or an hour. But what you've done to him will force him to suffer for the rest of eternity! Remove that filthy soul so my boy might return to me!"

It sounded like a demand, but her voice was desperate, almost pleading. Drusilla emerged from the darkness beside her. "Angelus has gone away," she whimpered. "Where is he?"

Darla grabbed hold of the gypsy's neck, at the same time snapping aside: "Drusilla, the camp—go on—kill things!"

_Kill things._

And suddenly Spike realized what she was about to do.

He ran lightly across the camp to where he had first seen the bearded man standing. An enclosed cart with a red-painted top, the hushed sounds of crying from within. A huddled woman and three little girls, the smallest of which was no older than the Dutch child he had let escape. Yards away, the faint sound of Darla's voice—

"In that wagon is your family. Your wife and daughters will die tonight without my protection. But if you'll do as I say, your family can live."

_Oh, no, you don't,_ Spike thought savagely. And with vindictive pleasure, he stepped into the cart and closed the door behind him.

* * *

* * *

Much later, he came across Angelus again. Even deeper into the forest this time, lying in a heap at the foot of a fir tree. He was shivering violently.

"You pathetic bastard."

He looked up at the sound of Spike's voice, and his eyes were so changed he hardly seemed the same creature as before.

"It wasn't me—" he whispered, as if Spike had accused him of something.

"It was you," the other said grimly.

"No—no, I wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't, huh?"

Spike took a seat on the carpet of pine needles beside his grandsire, his voice little more than a spiteful whisper.

"Wouldn't what? Wouldn't kill, wouldn't torture? You did it."

Angelus held himself and rocked from side to side. "Something drove me—something in my head—"

A sudden, fierce flash of anger at that. Spike rolled the other vampire onto his back, straddling his chest and backhanding him on his filthy cheekbone.

"You think you can tell yourself that?" he demanded harshly. "That something _forced_ you? That it wasn't your fault? You forget that I've been through it all myself. Went through that door to immortality. Came out the other side the same sodding man as before, only lesser. With a bloodlust I _could have_ controlled and didn't. You might not have had a conscience, but you bloody well had a choice. And you knew what you were doing and you did it anyway!"

Sobbing, tears. The cold, trembling body limp and helpless underneath him.

It made him even angrier.

Spike leaned down, his hands around Angelus' throat. Forehead to forehead, mouths almost touching, he whispered: "You sodomized me. You think God'll forgive you for that? Or, for tying down that tramp from the railway station and opening his stomach while he lay there alive—feeling everything—his entrails unwinding like a ribbon in your hand. For the little girl—couldn't have been more than nine years old—that you raped up against the wall in Carfax Abbey. You think your slate'll wash clean because now you feel remorse? "

"I confess to Almighty God…" began Angelus, garbled and desperate, muttering excerpts from a prayer half-remembered. "…to Blessed Mary ever virgin…I have sinned exceedingly…"

"Through my fault, through my most grievous fault," mocked Spike, pinning Angelus down as he struggled to escape. "You papist idiot. You think a mea culpa will put it to rights? You think _I_ could walk in to the Anglican Church and ask God to absolve _me_? Or is it the Catholics that have the stronghold on forgiveness?"

A certain dark clarity came into his grandsire's eyes at that. "_You_ don't want redemption. There's nothing good in you. But the soul—I can feel it inside me—"

_There's nothing good in you._

_If your girl saw you now…if she saw what you've done in her absence…would she still love you?_

Something burned in him, at that. Something apart from the satisfaction of seeing his persecutor suffering. Something that was almost—

Pushing the idea aside before it could fully form in his mind, Spike shoved himself up and off Angelus' body. He stared down at his erstwhile mentor—a creature gone helpless and frightened—and his eyes filled with disgust and a kind of controlled rage. His voice shook when he said:

"And it's damned you. God's abandoned you and you're going to hell, because you've got something that lives on after the rest of us are dust, and it'll do you no good now."

Spike raised a booted foot and brought it down onto the other vampire's stomach so brutally that he retched, and then he gave him a malicious smile.

"Give my regards to the devil, won't you?" he said.

* * *


	40. Chapter ThirtyNine

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

Boxer Rebellion  
Peking, China  
1900

"Looks to be quite a party."

Spike, the first out of the hull of the ship, clung to the sloping rail of the gangplank, grinning, first at the scene before him, and then over his shoulder to where Darla and Drusilla stood behind and slightly above him, their mouths agape. Although well after midnight, the city before them was ablaze with the light of torches and lanterns, even of burning buildings. Throngs of people swarmed the streets, and although some of them were clearly in the middle of an evacuation, others seemed just as determined to impede their retreat. The violence between them was incredible, even to the experienced eyes of the three on the ship, and for a moment, they simply stood there, watching.

Finally, Spike gave a jerk of his head, indicating something off to the left of them. "Look there."

A seemingly endless line of ships bobbed along the riverbank to each side of them. Darla looked without comment, but Drusilla whispered, "Look at all the pretty boats."

"Ships," he corrected. She started down the gangway and he automatically held up his hand for her to hold onto as she descended. "Military ships," he added, once she and Darla were beside him. He pointed to the one nearest them. "And that one, at least, is flying the Queen's flag. There's legations for at least a half-dozen nations in this city, and now, with the Boxers so put out about foreign interlopers, my guess is those nations called out their navies to keep the diplomats safe."

Darla raised an eyebrow. "That's rather foolish, considering that the insurgents could easily burn the place down."

"Not likely, I heard the captain talking right after we threw anchor—and just before I did him in—that they're all crowded into one compound now, and they've got a cannon to keep the little bastards off them until this whole nasty mess is over."

"Well, I hope we haven't traveled all this distance for the thing to be over with in a few days," sniffed Darla, as they made their way to shore. "That ship was an absolute nightmare. I've seen better accommodations in cargo holds than in those so-called 'passenger quarters'."

"What'd you expect on a ship bound for a land where the tourists get tortured to death?" he countered. "Anyway, we didn't want the best of the best. First class has the pretty views, but the pretty views will also make you burst into flames if you're not careful. We're better off in steerage."

"_You_ are better off, perhaps."

"You don't like it? Then, bugger off. I won't exactly weep into a pint over the loss of your company."

That much was true. In fact, he had dropped several hints during various parts of the journey that he would have found it much more pleasant without Darla. However, since Angelus' defection in Romania, she had developed a renewed interest in Drusilla—even in their little family as whole. Aside from a few excursions to the Master, she had spent most of the past two years in their company. Not that this softened the mutual hatred between Spike and her; but at least they had come to a truce of sorts, and each tolerated the other's presence with only a mild show of hostility.

Most of the time.

Weeks spent in the cramped and musty rooms of a steerage compartment had not done their tempers any good, and the greater part of their voyage had been spent bickering. Now, they could not escape each other fast enough, and parted ways the moment their feet touched land.

"Well, I'm off to find something of interest," Darla said breezily, already well on her way. "I'll catch up to you later."

"Don't go too far," Spike called. "Be a shame if someone set fire to you, thinking you were an outlander's silk divan."

She ignored the insult to her clothing—and her figure—and continued on her way.

Because he felt insistently contrary to everything Darla thought, said, or did—which often got him into trouble, for she did have a good bit of sense—Spike took the left road away from the docks as she took the right. Darla loved a good religious war, for which reason she had been eager to arrive in China. News of the uprising had spread like wildfire in Europe, particularly in France, where they had been spending the last few months. Spike would never have followed her but for the fact that another bit of information had reached his ears at around the same time.

The Slayer was in China.

He had kept his ear to the ground for some time, waiting to hear about her; but in his ignorance, it hadn't even occurred to him that she might not be in Europe. After all, all the others had been. Or, at least, the two that had mattered to him. Things that did not affect him directly—even Slayers—did not interest him at all, and he had never troubled himself to conduct any research on the previous ones.

He did, however, research this new one. Her name was Xin Rong, and she lived in the northern city of Peking. She was somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty—an impressive age for a slayer; they usually died in their teens. The difference between her and the last two slayers he had tackled was that her family had been made aware of her mantle long before it was necessary for her to carry it. The reason for this was not really clear, and Spike could only guess that perhaps the Watchers' Council was now attempting to prepare their slayers early on, in order to prevent such speedy casualties. At any rate, Xin Rong had been in training since childhood, and at the time of her calling, she was already considered an expert in _chángquán_. As rumor had it, she was one of the most skilled and feared slayers of all time.

He had to have her.

Driven by that desire, Spike had readily agreed to Darla's suggestion that they travel to China to see the rebellion they had been hearing so much about, and it was he, who suggested that they make Peking their first stop. However, once there, it wouldn't have bothered him in the least if she had been beheaded by an angry Boxer rebel the moment she stepped onto the dock.

After parting from her, he and Drusilla strolled through the chaos, arm in arm. Foreigners were despised in China, at the moment, their presence having been at the root of the uprising. While Dru looked nothing like an easterner, her dark hair and eyes might have allowed her a bit of anonymity, given that there was too much activity in the streets for anyone to be checking her features too closely. But Spike's light hair and blue eyes stood out in the crowd like a horse in a herd of antelope, and he had hardly begun his walk down the dusty street before someone attacked him with a wooden pole.

A wooden pole, for Christ's sake. It really was too easy, and, making short work of the assailant, Spike continued on his way unscathed.

His senses hummed in tune to the activity around him: nostrils flared, nerves quivering, hair on end. She was _here_. He could feel her. As if they had some connection already, something far different from what he had experienced with Maertge, or even Emiliana. For a moment, it seemed almost as if he could close his eyes and become her, see the city from her perspective and feel the smooth wood of an ornately carved stake in his hand. The most violent activity seemed to be taking place in _Dōng jiāomín xiàng_, near the walls of the Forbidden City, and it was to here that Spike felt inexplicably drawn.

Drusilla traveled with him most of the way, but as they neared the legation compound, she pulled to an abrupt halt in the dusty street and looked around her with an eager, hungry expression. Spike also stopped, albeit impatiently, and asked her what was the matter.

"I smell little children," she sighed, and rolled back her eyes in that particular, rhapsodic expression she got when young blood was close by. "They are so afraid, and there isn't any grown-up person around to comfort them."

"Go on and get them, then," answered Spike—a trifle irritably, for he was eager to be on his way.

She pouted briefly. "You aren't coming?"

"Don't have time, love. Go on and get a pretty one, and then come find me later. I'll be nearby."

Thus placated, Drusilla smiled at him and turned into a building to the right of them, a battered shop that had broken windows and a door that dangled loose and useless upon its hinges. As she said, however, it did have quite the strong odor of fear about it. And the agonized screams that erupted from within, once she had entered, followed Spike all the way down the street.

And then, suddenly, there she was. The Slayer.

Spike stopped dead for a moment, dazed by his success. How strange for him to find her so easily, so quickly, and in the first place he had thought to look. It couldn't possibly be a coincidence, he thought. And he—who had never been a believer in Fate—was altogether certain that this must be a sign of it at work. This slayer, this best-of-the-best, was meant to be his. Whether it be for his downfall or his triumph, he didn't know. But the second he set his eyes upon her, engaged in battle with some scrawny thing unworthy of her attentions, he knew that she was something special.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, he swaggered down the rutted, cart-filled avenue. A wide berth had been cut around the Slayer and her adversary—a Caucasian female vampire who resembled a mummy swathed in black silk—and with a bit of shoving, it was fairly easy to close the distance between them.

He broke a spoke off the wheel of a cart that sat overturned in the dirt, and held out the splintered end as a stake. When Xin Rong delivered a tornado-like kick to the vampire's flat chest, she staggered backward and, just as Spike knew she would, landed on the sharp point of the wood.

Afterward, he tilted his head at the Slayer and smiled. "And then…there were two."

She looked taken aback, momentarily confused as to why he would help her. Then, he dropped the stake to the ground, and took a step forward. She read the intent in his eyes.

And she ran.

Amazed by this behavior, Spike quickly gave chase. He could hardly believe that the same slayer every demon in Europe was talking about could be such a coward. And, in fact, she was not one. Two buildings down from them was an ornate temple with a heavy set of wooden double-doors. Xin Rong wrenched them open and darted inside, glancing over her shoulder as if to make sure he was following her. He was, of course. And once he entered the temple, he understood the reasoning behind her retreat.

On the slick, stone floor rested a sword and several piles of dust. She must have been fighting there earlier and dropped the sword at some point in the battle. Rather than suffer the loss of the female vampire he had helped her kill a few moments earlier, she had left the weapon in pursuit of her prey. Now, it seemed, she had returned for it.

Impressed by her show of cunning, as well as by the weapon itself, Spike paused in the doorway in order that she might retrieve it. It had a long blade and a gold hilt strung with red silk tassels, and when she picked it up, she handled it with an easy grace that made even Emiliana look clumsy by comparison.

He plunged into battle without any preliminaries, knowing, somehow, that they would not be welcome or necessary. The moment he was within range, she spun like a dervish and thrust out her sword, nearly slicing off his head. But he was quick, far more skilled than he had been nineteen years ago, when Maertge had almost killed him with her ham-handed, awkward style of brutality, and he ducked easily to the side. Her failed blow had left Xin Rong slightly—and very briefly—off balance, and he took quick advantage of that fact, throwing an uppercut before he had even straightened up, knocking her off her feet.

She rolled as if she had intended to do it, and was back on her feet as quickly as a cat. When he came at her again, she backhanded him with so much force that he spun a full 180 degrees before he could right himself. She whirled a circle around him, and came out in front with her sword extended. They both paused as if to consider the situation—she standing on one leg like a ballerina, he wide-legged and braced for a blow. An impressive few leaps on her part, and he staggered backward with her sword between his eyes, just an inch from piercing his forehead. He leaped to the side, but she had already drawn back again and struck, this time managing to slash his left eyebrow. Blood streamed into his eye, burning and momentarily blinding him on that side. But the pain and adrenaline left him oddly euphoric and intensely aroused, and all he could do at that moment was laugh.

As if to punish him for his insolence, she placed a well-timed kick to the side of his head and sent him reeling. He shook off the blow as if it were nothing, however, and gave her a cocky smile.

"Just like I pictured it," he told her, panting, excited in more ways than one. He asked, "Is this good for you?"

She rolled her eyes, clearly not understanding a word he said and clearly not wanting to. Her sword sliced through the air and he jumped, tucking up his legs just in time to avoid being struck. There was a sort of fierce choreography to their fighting, and Spike counted the beats in his head as they went along. _Spin, kick, leap, dodge, punch, duck…_

Xin Rong's first error was one of timing. She took a stab at him when he was already moving away, and her sword struck an elaborate, gold-leafed wooden Buddha. The sharp blade sank deep into the wood, and before she could pry it loose, Spike had forced her away. She was by no means down for the count, but he felt almost dizzy with pride at that small accomplishment: she had lost her weapon.

Still, the combat continued as before. _Spin, kick, leap, dodge, punch, duck, punch, punch, punch—_

Then, Spike was pressed with his back against a pillar and her foot at his throat. She drew a stake from the depths of her _pien-fu_ trousers and pulled back her arm to drive it home. But some small hesitation on her part accounted for the second error. An explosion from the street shattered the window beside them, and both of them were knocked to one side. And then he had her ankle in his hand, and he threw her off with so much force that it seemed to disorient her. She climbed to her feet and threw out the arm holding the stake in an almost desperate movement that cost her the battle—and, ultimately, her life.

With an easy twist of her arm, she was against his chest, her slender neck stretched helplessly—almost submissively—before him. And he was hard almost to the point of eruption. Then, his teeth were in her, and her blood was on his tongue; and it was almost unbearably sweet and warm. And he thought that nothing—_nothing_—would ever feel this good again.

And for a good number of years, he would be right.

* * *

* * *

He had no idea how much time had passed before Drusilla found him. The Slayer was sprawled on her side on the smooth floor, her dark braid half-obscuring her young face. He couldn't stop looking at her. It was as if she were a trophy to commemorate some great accomplishment, her cooling body undeniable proof of his abilities. Even the sound of Drusilla's approach could not tear his attention away from his prize.

"Oh, Spike. Look at the wonderful mess you've made," she whispered. "That's a slayer you've done in…naughty, wicked, Spike."

_Naughty._

_Wicked._

He felt a tiny dart of shame even as his cock jumped to attention at the words. Because he _was_ wicked, and he _wanted to be_. But—

_If your girl saw you now…if she saw what you've done in her absence…would she still love you?_

He pushed the thought away angrily. Because this was _his_ night. His long-awaited triumph. And he would let no one—not even _her_—take that pleasure away from him.

A tiny spark of rage erupted, and he grasped Drusilla with just the type of violence she loved, pulling her against his length in a way that left her in no doubt of what she was in for. When he spoke, however, his voice was gentle, almost a purr.

"Ever hear them say…the blood of a slayer is a powerful aphrodisiac?"

Her dark eyes lit with rabid interest, and he held his finger out for her to lick.

"Here, now. Have a taste."

She did. And when he had her up against the wall, a moment later, it was as if he were purging himself of every remorseful thought he had ever had.

* * *


	41. ChapterForty

**Chapter Forty**

California  
Autumn, 1997

In killing Xin Rong, he lost something…something that had always made him special, something separate from his life as a vampire. The soft spot in his heart—kept deeply and carefully preserved for so long—became as hard and brittle as the rest of him. The slayer killer. There was no room in him for tenderness, now. The part of him where he had once cradled her was a raw place that slowly healed, and as it did, it became so imbedded in its protective callous that even he ceased to find it.

When he drove into the small California town of Sunnydale, ninety-seven years after leaving China, there was very little resemblance between his current undead identity, and the mortal man he had once been. The injury Xin Rong had given him with her sword had taken years to fully heal, and it had left a permanent and very vivid scar across his left eyebrow. His cheeks had hollowed even more since then, bringing his cheekbones into high relief and giving his face a predatory, almost hungry look. A bottle of peroxide and Drusilla's hampering assistance had achieved what might have been considered the most radical—if reversible—physical change, and for the past twenty years, his hair had been kept bleached to near-whiteness. Gone, too, were the messy curls. Dru kept his hair trimmed short—most especially so in the back—and he painstakingly slicked it with styling gel. Unable to consult a mirror, he could only guess what the results of all this effort were by the reactions he received from others. And the reactions—especially women's reactions—were overwhelmingly positive.

Beyond all the physical differences, however, there was also the change to his attitude. As the years passed, he had become cocky almost to the point of recklessness, and far more cunning in spite of it. Experience had made him cynical; disappointment had made him suspicious. The blue eyes that had once been so open, so willing to bleed out his every emotion for Elizabeth to see, were closed. Hard. Full of wry amusement.

Evil.

He had the deaths of two slayers to his credit now, and the Watchers' Council kept a dossier on him that was three inches thick. Yet in not one of those hundreds of single-spaced, neatly typed pages was there an accurate summary of his human life, or of the journey that had taken him from there to here. They only knew him as William the Bloody, the vampire who tortured London's elite in the early 1880s. As Spike, one of the scourges of Europe, a slayer of slayers, a creature feared even in demonic circles. As a lone wolf of his kind, who shunned the company of any other vampire but Drusilla. There was nothing in that record to suggest the _real_ William the Bloody—the first one—besides a single photograph, printed on wrinkled newspaper, which resembled him in only the most superficial way. He was glad of that. He liked having no past.

Now, peering over the steering wheel of his black De Soto, his eyes narrowed as a wooden sign loomed up in front of him. It read:

WELCOME TO SUNNYDALE  
Pop. 38,500  
Have a nice stay!

"You have got to be bloody kidding me," he muttered, and jammed the sole of his Doc Martin onto the accelerator. Roaring like an enormous steel lion, the car hurtled forward into the sign, splintering the posts and flattening the boards as easily as he could have crushed a cigarette beneath his heel.

And speaking of cigarettes…

Spike slammed on the brakes, intentionally allowing the front wheel to bounce up on the curb as he pulled the car off the road. The driver's side door could stick sometimes, and he opened it by first slamming it with his shoulder and then wriggling the handle—a technique perfected over the years until it had become almost graceful. Dru was asleep in the backseat, oblivious to him when he stepped out onto the pavement, his booted feet spread wide apart as he looked around, surveying the area.

All along the quiet street were squares of neat, short-clipped grass, boxy houses with fresh paint and picket fences; shiny, late-model SUVs were parked in every driveway. Everything was in muted colors; everything was understated; everything matched. The place screamed Ozzie and Harriet: the best of white bread America. A refuge for the Caucasian cuffs-and-collars crowd.

In other words, disgusting.

Spike wrinkled his nose at the sight. Thirty-eight thousand people. Were they kidding? He could go through that number in just a few years' time. Just a couple of days would work, actually, if he were feeling particularly ambitious. The marriage of kerosene and a match would make for some rapid changes, and it looked like with this town, it could only be an improvement.

Nevertheless, he fought down the temptation to wreak utter havoc. Right now, there were more important matters to consider. Not the least of which being the reason for his arrival here in the first place.

The Slayer.

He was eager to meet this new one. He had first learned about her while he was in Prague. The buzz on the streets was that the girl had been called at the tender age of fifteen and that she was, by far, the most talented slayer anyone had ever seen. He had been impatient to meet her and would have left for America immediately, had Drusilla not been tortured by that goddamn child-loving Czech mob, leaving her too weak to travel.

When word came that the Slayer had killed the Master on the Hellmouth, however, he could wait no longer, not even for Dru. He made her as comfortable as he could for the journey and hoped for the best; and she had faired tolerably well. At any rate, he was fairly certain that being in this sleepy little haven would allow her the time she needed to heal. If not…

Well, he had heard of other ways.

For now, all of that was at the very back of his mind. It was the all-consuming desire for the Slayer that held him in thrall. He knew virtually nothing about her, save for the other vampires' horror stories of her strength and skill. But she had killed the Master and that was enough. Talent like that didn't come along every day, and if he conquered her…well, the mere thought of it gave him a little shiver of delight. He looked out upon the town now, a slight smirk on his demon's face as he lit a cigarette.

"Home sweet home," he murmured, and laughed to himself.

* * *

* * *

He'd heard tales that the Anointed One was hanging around the Hellmouth, as well as the Slayer, and his interests had been aroused. Generally, he avoided the company of other vampires; but like the Master, the Anointed One was one of those mystical creatures of prophecy and awe. He was feared and even worshiped by his kind. He was famous.

Well, he was worshiped by most of his kind, that is. It took a lot more than a prepubescent boy in a black turtleneck to command Spike's attention or his respect. Still, he was curious. And it was his curiosity and the need for a home that prompted him to seek out the boy. The abandoned factory hideout must have been the worst kept secret in all of Sunnydale, and the only wonder was that the Slayer hadn't raided it long ago, and staked all the idiots within. But it was comfortable, for the most part, and aside from having to feign some sort of religious reverence for the child (which, given his natural state of faithlessness and evil, felt very odd), it was not a wholly unpleasant place to call home.

He could tell that the other vampires despised him from the moment he came striding in the door that first night. The cocky braggart clad in the coat of a dead slayer. They wanted to get rid of him, but he was well known and almost as intimidating to them as the Anointed One, although few of the boy's lackeys would admit to that. Yet when their leader looked favorably upon the newcomer, and told him to kill the Slayer, they were duly impressed, and held their peace in spite of an immediate and intense sense of dislike for him.

Spike disliked the group, as well, and he was far from happy when the sharp-toothed little Messiah insisted that he take one of the henchmen along for his hunt. Spike preferred to travel alone, unencumbered by the idiocy that seemed prevalent among the rest of his kind. And the Slayer was something special, her death something intimate, not to be shared with the likes of these witless drones. However, he wasn't looking for a fight with the group, not just yet, so he allowed the order to pass without dispute. And just after sunset the following night, he and a particularly obtuse vampire named Conrad hit the streets in search of her.

If Spike had one especially keen talent, it was his ability to delve into the minds of others. The Slayer (he learned from the lackeys that her name was Buffy Summers, which he interpreted to be a massive kick in the nuts by Fate) was only sixteen years old, and when he asked himself what a girl of sixteen would be doing, midweek, in a town that had very limited entertainment options, the answer came quite easily. There was only a single, pathetic club within a fifty-mile radius of the place, and he figured that unless she was ugly or socially inept, then that was where he would find her.

Before he could approach her, however, he would have to get rid of Conrad.

It wasn't as hard as he had feared it might be. A simple suggestion that the other vampire grab a bite of dinner sufficed, and Spike heaved a small sigh of satisfaction as he continued into the club on his own.

Even without a decent physical description to go by, he knew the Slayer immediately. It was in the way she moved: supple and easy. She danced with so much grace that she made the rest of the clubbers look like lumbering cattle by comparison. He saw her, at first, from the back. Her arms raised above her head and her body swaying gently to the beat of the music. She was short and slender, but her limbs were slightly rounded, as if she had only just recently shed her baby fat. Her hair was straight and didn't quite touch her shoulders, and he sneered a little when he saw that it was blond, streaked with a not-particularly-attractive shade of platinum.

Nevertheless, he had to admit it…she had a damn fine little arse. Pert, like.

With the easy refinement of a practiced stalker, he slid around the room in a wide half-circle, instinctively dodging the other dancers without even looking at them. His eyes were trained on _her_—her body, her movements…the face that was just becoming visible as he angled around to the front of her. Her face was—

Jesus God.

Her _face_.

Stunned and disoriented by what he saw, Spike almost crashed into a pockmarked teenager with bad teeth, who was moving past him carrying some drinks. The kid veered to the side, attempting to move past him and succeeding only in blocking his view. The vampire roughly shoved him aside and then stood completely motionless, his eyes outwardly blank but his dead heart burning as he watched her…Buffy Summers. The Slayer.

_Elizabeth…_

The stab of longing that followed was a forgotten sensation. It had been so long since he had thought of her in his waking hours. _That_ had been achieved through much hard work and determination. But now, staring at the ghost of her features on this young girl, he felt a frisson of shock, of intense _déjà vu_. He felt, for a moment, as if he were staring directly into the face of his dead love. His only love.

Quickly, he shook off the feeling. Idiotic was what he was, even to consider the notion. Certainly, this girl bore a resemblance to Elizabeth. Mostly in her coloring and the shape of her face. But her hair was straight and her cheekbones not so prominent; her body was considerably more curved. Her eyes were what had thrown him. Light green—even in the sickly red strobe lights of the club—they were big and soft, the corners slightly turned down, giving her face a vulnerable, wistful expression. It was the eyes that accounted for his surprise, he told himself. Nothing more. For Elizabeth had been far more beautiful than this creature could ever hope to be.

But his mind stubbornly refused to accept the coincidence. And Elizabeth had lived in California, before she traveled to London to become his. She had never mentioned siblings; but of course, there would be cousins and other relatives. The surname was right. Who was to say? Perhaps this girl was some distant descendent.

His jaw tightened at the thought. Relatives who had outlived her…women who had borne children to their spouses and raised those children to bear yet more. All while his sweetheart lay rotting in some unknown pit. The old feelings of rage rose up in him, and he felt a renewed and even more intense determination to kill her. The Slayer had no right to look like _her_, and he resolved that she should be punished for it.

Rudely, he pushed his way through the crowd to the bar. By now, Buffy Summers had stopped dancing and was standing between two empty stools, waiting impatiently to order a drink. Spike wedged himself in beside her and called to the harried barkeeper in an urgent tone.

"Where's the phone? I need to call the police. There's some big guy out there trying to bite somebody! "

The Slayer was gone in a flash, and with a dismissive shrug, Spike brushed away the telephone offered to him by the bartender. He ambled after the girl, taking his time. There was a pain in his stomach, and he told himself that it was just anticipation. But when he listened to her quip with Conrad a few minutes later, something in it seemed achingly familiar. And for the first time in over a hundred years, his heart felt almost wholly vulnerable. If she had turned at just that moment, and noticed him standing there, then it was possible that the pattern of the next three years would have been irrevocably altered.

Then, his eyes narrowed with the sudden realization of what he was doing, and he steeled himself for the confrontation.

Because, clearly, the bitch had to die.

* * *

_To be continued in Part III_

* * *


	42. Chapter FortyOne

**Part Three**

* * *

_Until the day break, and the shadows flee away...__  
_Song of Solomon 2:17

* * *

**Chapter Forty-One**

California  
September 2001

Light was all around her—blazing white, hot, and cruel. Nothing else. Nothing at all for what seemed like a century…or just over a century. Then, the world appeared again in a blinding whirl of color and sound, and she was thrown, as if by some uncaring hand, onto a surface so hard that it knocked the breath from her body.

For a moment, she could only lie there, gasping. There was a thin stream of blood dribbling down her forehead, and her lungs burned as if her ribs were bearing down on them. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the rough, unforgiving plane that stretched beneath her. Buffy's fingertips dug into it, and she slowly turned her head so that her cheek rested against its warmth and she could see it. And it was—

Tarmac.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it not to be true. It was a dream…she'd had them before. Nightmares about being yanked away from the first bit of warmth and safety her life had known since she was fifteen years old. This was no different, she told herself. Just a nightmare. Soon, Livvy would be tapping on the door and waking her, helping her dress for breakfast. And William—

A small moan escaped her at the thought of him, and hot tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. Because she knew—she just _knew_—that this was not a dream. Not this time.

She had been pulled away from him. She had been brought back.

At first, the shock of it left her dazed, and she was deaf and dumb to anything except her own agony. But, eventually, her senses woke, and she began to hear sounds that, after such a long time away, seemed almost alien to her. London had seemed a bustling and noisy city at the time she had left it, full of horses and carriages, coal carts and ice wagons, men talking and women giggling, peddlers and beggars shouting from every street corner. Yet this place—this _time_—made all of that seem so diminished. Her ears filled with the roar of traffic on pavement, of horns screeching and radios blasting. She raised her head and immediately, her eyes were overwhelmed by color. Everywhere, there were lights—streetlights—headlights—the neon lights of shops and restaurants. They made her dizzy, and she could not bring herself to stand. But she forced herself into a sitting position and looked around in utter confusion. A building sat before her, squat, bright and ugly, in the late summer twilight. The front windows were huge and reflected the lights of the street, completely obscuring the people within. There was a sea of cars around her…a parking lot…and the sign that loomed over her on a steel pole read: _Loony Tunes Music Shop._

Someone inside the store suddenly opened the door. A bell tinkled thinly and was quickly drowned out by the booming music that was playing within.

Buffy's head throbbed to the beat of the song, and she pushed herself up from the pavement. Her legs were so wobbly she staggered to the side even before she had fully straightened her back, but she managed not to fall. Still disoriented, she braced her palm against the nearest car and tried to steady herself. The moment she touched it, however, the alarm went off with a computerized shriek, startling her so that she immediately leaped backward, feeling absolutely terrified.

"Hey!" a man shouted, running out of the shop's open door. He drew up close to her and glared accusingly. "What are you doing to my Beemer?"

"Beemer…" she echoed slowly. His voice was raucous, grating, and his mouth seemed to move slower than the words that escaped from it. She had no idea what he was talking about.

"My _car_," he said bitingly. "My brand-new, $130,000, BMW Z8 Roadster convertible. Were you touching it?"

"I—I wasn't—"

She took a shaky step backward, and his eyes roved over her in an appraising and horribly suspicious way.

"What the hell do you think this is, anyway? Halloween?"

"Hallo…" Buffy's voice trailed away as she looked down at herself. She was wearing a white dress trimmed with lilac and a matching hat; her riding whip was still dangling from her wrist, held there by a thin circlet of leather.

The man before her was clad in Calvin jeans and an expensive-looking jacket of brown leather. He was middle-aged and balding, clearly not impressed with her. He snorted.

"On drugs, huh? High? I'm not surprised. All I'll say is you'd better get the hell away from my car, or else I'm going to call the police."

Although she didn't have the faintest clue what he was talking about, Buffy could read the intent in his angry dark eyes. She nodded stupidly, silently. There was a long stretch of highway beside her, and she turned toward it, stumbling away from the man with her hands extended before her like a blind woman's. Behind her, she could hear the man swearing quietly as he inspected his vehicle.

His voice warped suddenly, wavered as if its owner were being choked by an unknown hand. And Buffy didn't know if it was truly the man's tone changing, or if she had gone insane from the shock and was hallucinating. She didn't look back to see.

The glare of headlights appeared in the distance, throwing halos across her vision and disorienting her even more. She lurched to a halt, tripping over her long skirts, the stiff shaft of her whip tapping against her hip sharply. Something very large was bearing down on her, and the white lights preceding it became suddenly blinding. Like a deer, Buffy stood motionless and spellbound, staring directly into the grill of the truck. Unafraid.

Then, the driver saw her and punished her for her stupidity with his booming air horn. And the sound was so loud—so terribly unfamiliar—that it frightened her into motion. She lunged to one side, stumbling into the shallow ditch that flanked the road. There was a wooded area next to her—dense with trees but not very large—and she fled into it. And all the while, her head was pounding with a single thought:

_Oh God…I don't know where I am._

* * *

* * *

Spike pressed his index finger into the doorbell, once. Then, twice. Then, three times. And then he waited, bobbing impatiently on the balls of his feet, for someone to answer. Although his blue eyes were darting around him, seemingly interested in his surroundings, his thoughts were not on them. Mentally, he was preparing himself for whoever came to the door. If it were the Bit, he knew he'd get information. If it were the Scoobies, however, it would just be another pointless—and seemingly endless—argument, which would conclude, no doubt, with his being physically expelled from the property. And if it were Buffy—

A lump formed in his throat at that. Buffy. How long had it been since he had last seen her? He didn't even have to consider it. He knew. She'd disappeared on April 30. He'd last seen her on the seventeenth. Hadn't spoken to her, though. Had been weeks before that since he had spoken to her. But he'd seen her at the Bronze and in the cemetery, had been careful not to speak or to stalk…but he'd watched.

Today was September 5. It had been 128 days since she'd left, and 141 days since he had last seen her.

He sighed and fidgeted. He was about to press the bell again when the heavy wooden door opened just a crack and a pair of blue eyes peeped through it.

"Spike?" Dawn said it like a question, with the air of marked relief. She opened the door wider. "What are you doing here?"

He rolled his shoulders in an uneasy shrug. "In the neighborhood and all that. Thought I might as well drop in, see if you'd heard—"

She shook her head slowly, almost gently. Almost as if she knew how badly the answer hurt him. Something in her sympathy made him feel worse, and he cleared his throat loudly. "Well—"

Dawn's gaze followed his own as it traveled over her shoulder. "They're not here," she said in answer to his unasked question. "They've gone out again, to the Magic Box. They never tell me anything…but I think they're doing the chanty thing. You know. Trying to get her ba—"

"Why don't they do it here?" Spike interrupted. "This is where she disappeared."

"Willow says there's more positive energy at the Magic Box…it's supposed to make the whole thing easier."

He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, stuck it between his lips, and muttered: "Positive energy, huh? We'll have to tell that to the previous owners. I'm sure they'll appreciate knowing it, being positively dead and all."

"Well…I think she meant, like, magical energy. Not really…" She paused. Then: "I'd invite you in, but…"

"Yeah, I know. They knew I came here again, I'd end up a smear of charcoal at the end of a very stout skewer."

"They're still angry with you about the whole kidnapping her thing, I guess," Dawn admitted. "But if you'd just let me explain…if you'd let me tell them what you did after Mom died. What you did for me and for Buffy. I mean…you risked your life for us…and for Mom. If I told them, maybe they'd stop being mad at you."

He snickered. "Tell them that I helped you try to bring your mum back from the dead? Yeah, that'll get me an invite to Thanksgiving dinner, all right."

"You were just trying to help…"

"Well, they wouldn't see it that way. And neither would Buffy. So, you just keep your mouth shut about it, all right?"

She looked sulky. "If you hadn't been such an idiot, you wouldn't be _person non grativas_ right now."

"Well, it's not like I meant for it to turn out that way!" he snapped with swiftly growing irritation. "And it's _persona non grata,_ for Christ's sake. What are they teaching you in that school?"

"You know…math and stuff," she answered vaguely, not at all deterred from their original subject. "How'd you expect it to turn out?" she demanded after a moment. "You can't just chain someone up and tell them to love you. That's like—beyond obsession."

"Well, I know that _now_, don't I?" He took a drag on his cigarette and then pulled it out of his mouth to shake ash from the tip. It sifted onto the welcome mat at his feet.

"Who told you the details of that, anyway?"

"Xander."

"Mm. No surprise there. Bastard's got no problem giving you all the nasty little particulars of that night and putting ideas into your head; but he won't sit a night with you while the rest of them are putting on their mojo."

Dawn looked uneasy, and Spike's sharp eyes noticed it immediately.

"You been alone long?" he pressed.

"Not long, really. Just…frequently. Everyone's really busy."

He snorted. "I can imagine."

"Spike…" The big blue eyes suddenly became plaintive, looking at him. "If I _did_ invite you in, you wouldn't say anything to them about it, right? You wouldn't just come in anytime you wanted…to sniff my sister's underwear, or whatever it was you were doing before. Would you?"

Spike tilted his head back, directed a line of smoke at the porch light. "I'd try to hold back," he said dryly. "Why? You saying you want me to come in?"

"I don't know. I mean…there's never anyone here until, like, eleven o'clock. There's nobody to talk to and nothing to do. And _you_ never have anything to do, now that you aren't able to go around ripping out people's throats. I thought we could…you know…hang out." She flashed him a winning smile then, and played her trump card: "We've got Totino's pizza rolls."

"Thanks for the crumbs from your table," he replied. He tried to look nonchalant but came off incredibly self-conscious instead, as he added, "Yeah. Guess if I were to get an invite, I might see my way clear to accept."

Stepping back slightly, Dawn pulled open the door as wide as it would go. Then, she said unceremoniously, "Come in, Spike."

He followed her over the threshold, and just like that, the wall came down.

Just like that, he was inside the Summers' home.

* * *

Later, she would have no idea how she arrived there. Nothing was familiar, not even those landmarks and places she had seen a million times before—not even the Bronze, the brightly-lit, key-shaped sign of which rose up out of the darkness like a warning flare. She veered away from it and walked blindly through the town, moving in ragged lines and loops. It was only by chance or instinct that she found herself on Revello Drive, and even then, she was confused, uncertain as to which of the houses actually belonged to her.

It was by chance, therefore, that she picked the right one.

Like a dead woman walking, she crossed the lawn. The train of her skirt was bedraggled and dirty; it caught on one of the hedges that flanked the steps. Buffy ignored it and kept walking until it gave way under the pressure, pulled out of the branches with a sharp, tearing sound. Once she was on the porch, she felt dizzy, a little queasy, as if the exertion had been too much for her. She gripped the wooden doorframe with both hands and willed herself not to faint.

"Dawn—" she called. But her voice was weak and strangled, hardly more than a whisper. No one answered the call—she forgot about the bell—so she grappled for the doorknob instead. It turned easily. Not surprising, since they rarely locked the door; but to Buffy, the sudden movement was startling. She was still leaning against its wooden surface, so when the door opened, she lost her balance and fell forward. Fell into the room.

Fell into absolute confusion.

Just a few dozen feet from her, in the living room, Spike was drowsing against one arm of the sofa, his feet propped comfortably on the edge of the coffee table. Buffy couldn't see his face; his back was to her. But she could tell by the slant of his head that he was sleepy, his attention only vaguely focused on the flickering lights of the television. Beside him, Dawn was drawing a heart on the palm of her hand with a felt-tip pen. Her eyes were staring raptly at _Monty Python and the Holy Grail._

"This is really awesome," she said, aside.

Spike stirred at the sound of her voice. "Huh? Oh, well. Don't be telling the foster family I was letting you watch this, or they'll think you're corrupted."

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Please. I saw _The Spy Who Shagged Me_ last week with Janice and her mom, and that was so much worse." Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Anyhow, you made me promise not to tell them you were here at all."

"Yeah. Well, that's—"

He stopped suddenly. Buffy had dropped to her knees onto the floor, giving in to the horrible, trembling weakness in her legs. She was certain that she had not made a sound, but something alerted Spike to her presence. His head whipped around, his shoulders twisting so that he could see the foyer full-on. When he did, he froze.

Frightened by his behavior, Dawn turned to look, too. Her eyes were anxious, as if in expectation of seeing a demon, or maybe an angry member of the Scooby gang. When they landed on Buffy, however, they changed to relief, and then to utter delight.

"Buffy!"

She vaulted over the back of the sofa, and Buffy thought she heard Spike call to her—"Dawn, wait!"—but his voice was hoarse and thick, so soft that she couldn't be sure if he had actually spoken. She had looked down when he turned toward her, and she couldn't bear to raise her eyes now. Even as Dawn threw her arms around her sister's neck, Buffy's eyes were trained on the hardwood floor.

Dawn was sobbing, clutching at her. "Buffy—Buffy—where've you been—?"

But Buffy hardly heard her. There was another sound that caught her attention: the soft creak of the sofa as Spike pushed himself up from it, the thump of his boots crossing the floor to where she and Dawn sat together, wrapped in a tangled embrace. She flinched at his approach. He stopped very close to them and then stood still. And she tried with everything in her not to look—she didn't want to look. But beyond her own volition, her eyes rose, traveling up the slim, black-clad body until they finally rested on his face.

_His_ face.

It was a face full of longing, the blue eyes lost and naked…so very familiar. But his hair was platinum and his cheeks gaunt…the line of one dark blond eyebrow was divided by a jagged scar. His head tilted and his full lips parted as if to speak—

But he didn't.

Because at that moment, his eyes flicked downward, and they noted, for what she knew must be the first time, what she was wearing. Did he recognize the dress? Impossible to say. But a garnet bracelet adorned her right wrist. It was scuffed and dirty from the parking lot, half-hidden by the sleeve of her garment.

But still so very, very familiar. A link between them.

His eyes locked on it; and Buffy, still numb with shock, could see the exact moment when he put it all together.

Dawn saw it, too. The strange and suddenly greedy look on his face. It alarmed her, and she said softly, "Spike…are you okay?"

He shook his head slightly, his eyes still trained on the bracelet.

"I'm…"

He spoke quietly and very slowly. Before he could go any further, his words were cut off by the sudden thunder of footsteps. Buffy jumped as something crashed behind her—Xander had knocked over the coat rack—and then she was surrounded by people.

Although there were only five of them, they seemed like a hundred. All of them were talking at once, raising their voices to compete with everyone else's and stepping on each other's words. Five pairs of hands grappled at her—six, if she counted Dawn's, although her sister's were much gentler—and pulled her to her feet.

"Buffy, are you okay?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Where have you been?"

"Do you remember anything?"

"You weren't wearing that _before_ you cashed in your ticket on the magic bus to Hellville, were you?"

The last question, uttered by Anya, earned her a withering glance from Willow.

"Don't talk to her like that! You don't know where she's been—she's upset. Can't you see she doesn't want to talk about it? She's in shock! Buffy, do you want to talk about it?"

The rapid-fire interrogation made Buffy's head ache, and it only served to confuse her more. She dropped her face into Dawn's shoulder and mumbled an indistinct response. Dimly, she could hear Xander's voice climb to a tone of high-pitched sarcasm, and she realized that he must be talking to Spike, ordering him to leave.

Suddenly, there was another slam—this one so violent that the walls shivered and the pictures hanging on them crashed to the floor. And Buffy knew, without having to look, that Spike was gone.

* * *

**Author's note:** Okay, I know what you guys are thinking--what happened to them since that first night at the Bronze? Well, it will be revealed, don't worry. Just probably not in the way you expect. Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! 


	43. Chapter FortyTwo

**Chapter Forty-Two**

The sound of the door slamming startled all of them, and for a merciful moment, there was complete silence in the room.

Of course, it didn't last.

Xander was the one who spoke first. He snorted and, with a nod to the broken picture frames that littered the floor, said sarcastically, "Yeah, that's our Spike. All about the dramatic exits."

"He is very good at them," Anya pointed out.

"But how did he get in?" Willow asked. "I mean…my spell should've held—"

"It did," Xander interrupted. He looked accusingly at the young girl who was currently bearing the weight of her older sister on her shoulder. "Dawn invited him in. Didn't you?"

She didn't answer, and he grabbed her arm, looking angry enough to shake her. "What were you thinking? Inviting that _thing_ back into this house after what he did to Buffy!"

Dawn pulled away from him, her spirit up and her eyes flashing. "This house is _my_ house. Mine and Buffy's. You can't tell me who I can invite into it."

"Oh, well, that changes everything then! Let's just invite all the evil dead things over to watch videos. Anyone got Nosferatu's telephone number? I hear he's not much of a talker, but—"

"Xander!" Giles' voice broke out above the din, harsh and authoritative. Immediately, Xander fell silent, and the Watcher went on more quietly, "Now is not the time for this. Buffy is obviously in shock…who knows what she's had to endure for the past several months. The last thing she needs is to hear all of you shouting at each other."

"Well, what _does_ she need?" Anya asked. "I mean…since she got back, she's just been kind of…sack o' potatoes. Are you sure her mind is all there?"

Immediately, Willow turned on her with a fierce expression. "Anya! She's standing _right there_. How could you say—?"

Unaffected by the rebuke, Anya merely shrugged. "Well, it's a valid question. And I don't see how it's going to upset her. If she _is_ brain damaged from the cross-dimensional road trip, she won't know what I'm talking about anyway. And if she isn't, then why should she be offended?"

"My God! Do you have _any_ control over what comes out of your mouth?" Willow demanded angrily.

Before the argument could escalate, Tara intervened, putting an arm around her girlfriend and gently pulling her out of the fray. "Willow…sweetie…Giles is right. Now isn't the time."

Xander nodded determinedly. "You're absolutely right, Tara. It isn't. Now's the time to put that barrier spell back up and—"

Still clutching her sister protectively to her side, Dawn snapped at Xander: "You've got no right to do that spell!"

He backed down a little, but not by much. "Okay…" he said in a quieter tone. "Let's just ask Buffy. _She's_ the one who Evil Dead was stalking, and she's the one who wanted his invitation revoked in the first place. What do you say, Buff? You want us to put the invitation into effect again?"

Buffy, who until that moment had been slumped with her face in Dawn's shoulder, startled at the sound of his voice being directed at her. She looked up, appearing thoroughly confused by the question.

"Wha…I…"

"It's all right, Buffy," Dawn interrupted. "You don't have to answer that question right now. You don't have to answer anything." She shot the rest of them—Xander in particular—a look that warned them not to argue with her.

They might have done it anyway had Giles not said quietly, "Well put, Dawn. What Buffy needs right now is rest and quiet."

"And a bath couldn't hurt," added Anya. She motioned to Buffy's torn and filthy dress, to the parking-lot grime that streaked her arms and face.

For a moment, Giles looked exasperated.

"No…" Buffy interrupted when he started to speak. "No, she—she's right. I think I'd like a…"

"I'll take her," Dawn announced before anyone else could speak. She shifted her body so that she could more comfortably support Buffy, who was still leaning on her. However, a moment after this, Buffy pulled away.

"I'm okay," she said. "I'll…be okay."

Dawn nodded. "Okay. But, uh, do you need help with—"

She motioned to the dress, and an expression of dismay and irritation crossed Buffy's face. The corset. Always the damned corset…the one thing about 1880 she wouldn't miss. She sighed and nodded to Dawn. "Yeah…I guess I need help."

And slowly, so slowly, she climbed the stairs to her old room, her old clothes, and her old life.

She and Dawn were hardly out of sight when the five people downstairs resumed their discussion—albeit far less heatedly than before.

"What went wrong?" Willow fretted. "She was supposed to come to the Magic Box…to us. Instead, she reappeared here—"

"Not here," Giles countered thoughtfully. "From what Dawn said, I don't think it was here. She must have arrived somewhere else and made her way back home on foot."

"But _why_?"

"Does it matter?" Xander asked. "She's here now."

"But where do you suppose she's been?" asked Anya. "Did she piggy-back on Glory's trip to the hell dimension?"

"It would make sense—" Willow began. But Tara shook her head.

"The—the spell hit the mirror, remember? That could have altered it…thrown it off kilter and directed the teleportation somewhere else. Not to mention—" she hesitated.

"What?" Giles pressed.

"Well…w—we weren't exactly sure whether it would work…it was a really complicated spell. Transferring solid objects…living things…it isn't…exactly easy. And even if you know where to send them, dimensions move. So, it's not really foolproof."

"Then, how do you know where Glory ended up?"

Willow looked sheepish, a little nervous. "Well—here's the thing: We don't know exactly."

"_You don't know exactly_?" Giles' voice was incredulous, more than a little angry. "Willow, do you realize how foolish it is for you to perform magic without considering the consequences—"

"Giles, I _did_ consider the consequences. And if it weren't for me, Dawn would be dead now—"

"That's true," Anya piped up. Then she added, with a poorly concealed sense of maliciousness, "Of course, if it weren't for you, Buffy wouldn't have been sent to God-knows-where, been tormented for months on end, and come back brain damaged."

"She is not brain damaged! And I didn't do that on purpose! I never intended—"

"Whoa, whoa!" Xander interrupted, holding out his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Let's all just take a step back here."

"Xander is right," Tara said. "We aren't going to get anywhere by arguing."

Willow nodded. She waited until she had calmed down enough to speak, and then she said to Giles, "We've been trying to do a locator spell. We tried to do one on Buffy as well, in order to bring her back. But it's—"

"Very complicated," he broke in dryly. "I know. Well, keep trying."

She nodded with a hint of her old meekness and did not argue.

"I don't get it," Anya said, furrowing her brow in confusion. "How'd you get Buffy back if you didn't know where she was?"

Tara and Willow exchanged an uneasy look.

"We channeled an ancient," the latter said finally. Her tone and words were eerily careful. "We made it a deal."

"What kind of deal?" Giles questioned, once again suspicious.

"A sacrifice," she answered, adding quickly: "But not anything dangerous."

"But dark magic."

Tara nodded slowly, almost shamefacedly. "W—we couldn't just leave her there. And—and we were careful. There shouldn't be any negative consequences."

Giles rubbed a hand across his forehead. "With magic, there are _always_ consequences."

There was a moment of uneasy silence then. Once again, it was broken by Xander.

"Hey, you know…we still haven't dealt with the matter at hand, guys."

The other four of them looked confused.

"The matter at hand?" echoed Willow.

"Spike."

Giles made an impatient sound. "Xander, I really don't think that Spike is important right now."

"He is important," Xander insisted. "Remember what he was doing right before Buffy disappeared? Stalking her, stealing her stuff? Tying her up and—"

Before he could finish, Anya suddenly decided to play Devil's Advocate, surprising them all. "Yeah, but that was weeks before she actually left," she said. "Plus, he can't really hurt her now. Remember? Not while he's got that chip in his head."

"Not unless Drusilla decides to join in on the fun again."

Xander looked around the group, and when no one agreed with him, he added persistently, "I mean…who knows what kinds of sick thoughts are going through his head right now?"

* * *

* * *

Spike paced the length of his crypt's lower level restlessly, ceaselessly. It seemed to him that if he stopped moving even for a moment, then it would all have been a dream. A nightmare maybe. But a dream nonetheless.

He felt almost dizzy with shock…almost sick with it. It was almost unbelievable. He wouldn't have believed it had it not been for that bracelet. So many things had faded from his memories over time…had been forcibly pushed away because they were painful. Odd that a single piece of jewelry could bring all of it back in an instant. Could bring it back with such agonizing clarity. His mind feverishly recalled the night in the music room, the night she had thanked him for buying her the bracelet. Her hand on his arm…the way she smelled…the closeness of her. All of it was suddenly so _real_.

Too real.

Abruptly, he spun around and lunged across the narrow passageway. His heart ached terribly, and he didn't know what to do to ease the hurt. He did the only thing he knew how to do—he lashed out with his fists. He drew back and beat the stone wall with both hands, punching it repeatedly and with so much force chunks of rock broke off and the jagged surfaces they left behind peeled the flesh from his knuckles so forcefully, he could feel his bones giving way under the abuse. He couldn't stop. He was hardly aware he was doing it—hardly aware that he was screaming.

_You bitch, you bitch, you goddamn lying bitch!_

One hand became imbedded in the rock, and he had to brace his foot against the wall to jerk it out. When he withdrew it, the fingers were twisted; it wouldn't make a fist. Cursing, he kicked at the blood-smeared, crumbling surface.

She had _known_. The whole bloody time she had known that she wouldn't last there; she had known that her motherfucking friends would find a way to bring her home. She didn't belong there, and still she—

_She made me fall in love with her. She fucked up my entire life._

He _knew_, goddamn it. He knew what she was playing at. Bit of a lark for her. Screw with his mind, give herself something to do while she waited for the Wicked Bitch of the West to drag her back to her _real_ life.

_She made me into what I am…she made me…_

But he'd always been this way, hadn't he? She hadn't caused that. The look in her eyes when she saw him tonight—the utter lack of surprise—told him that.

_But I was not this bad,_ he insisted to himself. _Couldn't have been. Not this sodding screwed up._ She _did that to me. All the pain—all the years of pain—she made me love her—_

She made him _need_ her.

And then she—then she—

_Then, you fucking took it away!_

He had no idea if he was screaming the words aloud or only in his head. There was an explosive pain in his hands and wrists; his head was pounding. He hardly even noticed it. Unable to close them into fists now, he slammed the palms of his broken hands against the stone. She might as well have stuck a blade in his heart. She might as well have been twisting it at that moment. It was a physical pain far beyond anything else he might have been feeling. It was agonizing. It was enraging. He wanted to kill himself.

He almost wanted to kill her.

Spike fell forward against the stone, bracing himself on his elbows, panting and dizzy with the thought. Something in that thought—something—

In a rush, it all came back to him. Over three years of violent hatred for the Slayer. Up until the past six months or so, he'd been—

_You could never hurt me, William. I trust you never to hurt me._

—trying to kill her.

He'd tried to _kill_ her.

And he could feel it suddenly. Feel his hands on her…beating her face…backhanding her down a set of stairs. He could feel himself kicking her with heavy boots…could feel his fangs bared and driving for her throat.

The anger drained out of him at the memories, and he slowly sank to the floor.

Is what—?

A burst of hysterical laughter escaped his lips at the irony of that. The stupidity of him, to think he could be worthy of her, to think that she had loved him. To think that she _could_ love him.

To think that he knew her at all.

He dropped his head into his broken hands and began to sob.

* * *

* * *

Buffy had forgotten how bright their bathroom was. The pale pink wallpaper, the white tiles with blue accents…the tub-and-shower insert the color of mint chewing gum. The lighting bounced off the clean surfaces, making her squint. The blinding glare of it took her back to those moments she had spent in limbo. The moments before her return.

Dazed, Buffy stood in the center of the room, looking around her. Dawn positioned herself at Buffy's back and fumbled first with the hooks on her bodice and then with the laces of her corset.

"I can see why you said you needed help," said Dawn with false cheer. "These things really are a pain in the butt."

Buffy looked over her shoulder at her sister, her face blank. It made Dawn's smile falter; it made her eyes cloud. She bit her lip, for the moment forgetting the corset as she struggled to ask the question that had been on her mind since Buffy first reappeared.

"Buffy…where you were…where you got sent…did they…hurt you?"

Immediately, Buffy's head snapped back around. She fixed her eyes on the bracelet that encircled her wrist and willed herself not to cry.

"No," she said softly. "They didn't hurt me."

Dawn nodded—"That's…that's really good"—and resumed her work. It was a little bit of a struggle for her to get her fingers beneath the lacings; they were done up very tightly. But eventually she got them all loosened enough to pull the off corset.

"Do you…do you want me to turn my back now? Or, I could leave if you want…"

Buffy was staring at the water that streamed from the faucet into the half-filled bathtub, seemingly mesmerized by the cloud of steam and mounds of bubbles it produced. If she heard her sister's question, she didn't answer it. After a moment of uncertainty, Dawn finally started to help her undress. There was a ridiculous amount of underclothing involved in the outfit, she thought as she worked. Very _Gone With the Wind-y_. Buffy seemed completely out of it, completely devoid of embarrassment. So, Dawn unlaced her boots for her and removed her stockings…pulled her chemise over her head.

And then her eyes widened.

"Buffy…what is that?"

Buffy looked down at herself, at the small reddish circle that adorned the pale flesh above her collarbone. The place where, on their last night together, he had gently gnawed at her…kissed her…whispered into her flesh that she was beautiful. When he had seen the mark it left afterward, he had been upset. He was afraid he had hurt her, and it took a lot of reassurance to convince him otherwise. The thought of it made her ache inside.

Quickly, she covered the mark with her hand. She could see in her sister's eyes that Dawn knew exactly what it was and that she was concerned. And for an instant, Buffy thought about telling her everything. But only for an instant.

"Nothing," she mumbled instead. "It's…nothing. And…and thanks for helping, but I think I want to be alone now."

Dawn opened her mouth as if to protest. Then she closed it again and nodded. "Okay. If that's what you need…"

"That's what I need."

* * *

* * *

When Dawn went back downstairs a few minutes later, Willow and Giles seemed to be holding a whispered conference together while the others listened. They stopped talking after Dawn walked into the room.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"We were discussing the best way to help Buffy readjust," Giles answered. He pulled off his glasses and wiped them with a tissue—never a good sign. Then, he asked, "How is she?"

"She's…" Dawn hesitated, unsure of how to answer the question. She didn't know how Buffy was, except that she was oddly impassive and almost silent. And that there was a mark on her chest—

She swallowed.

"Buffy's not really…she's not herself."

"We noticed," Xander said dryly. "Any guesses as to why?"

"No, I don't. She wasn't exactly all up for the chitchat, you know." She looked from Giles to Willow, as if those two were certain to hold the answer to her next question. "What—what was that outfit she was wearing? It looked old. Like…like historical or something."

"I noticed that as well." Giles looked at Willow. "Is there a possibility that she could have been sent to a different time instead of a different dimension?"

Willow looked offended. "No…_no_…I did that part of the spell right!"

Quickly, Tara broke in. "Of course y—you did, Willow. But she might have gone to another dimension similar to our own. Some place where they wear corsets," she finished lamely.

Giles cleared his throat, clearly skeptical. "Yes. Well, regardless of where she was, I think it is safe to assume that her experiences there were traumatic. Her behavior says as much. The question is, how long will it last…and what can we do to help her in the meantime."

There was a thoughtful silence at that, a moment where they all racked their brains. Finally, Willow said softly:

"I think—I think maybe we should call Angel."

* * *


	44. Chapter FortyThree

**Chapter Forty-Three**

The five other people in the room stared at Willow, clearly dumbfounded by her statement. And it _was_ a statement. Not a question, not a suggestion, but spoken as a given. As if, at a time like this, calling Angel was the most sensible thing in the world.

Giles shook his head slightly, clearly puzzled. He parted his lips to speak; but, before he could utter a sound, Dawn beat him to it.

"Why would _he_ be any use? How could he help Buffy readjust?" Her tone was bitterly sarcastic, her eyes hard. But Willow didn't back down.

"He helped her before," she said quietly.

"Oh, you mean the last time you dragged my sister across dimensions or time and brought her back an emotional cripple? 'Cause weirdly, I'm not remembering that one."

"No. I mean when your mom died."

The mention of Joyce struck Dawn dumb, and for a second, she just stared at her friend. No one else spoke, just watched the young girl fumble to find a response.

"I don't believe you," she said finally. "He was never here after mom died."

"Yeah, he was. The day of the funeral…well, that night. I know because I was the one who called him."

"You _called_ him?" Xander echoed. Like a tempest breaking, the anger he had unleashed on Spike swiftly turned to Angel. "Willow, why in the world would you do that? Didn't she have enough to worry about then without you bringing tall, dark, and criminally insane into it?"

"He's not criminally insane, Xander. He's not even evil…now." She added the last word lamely, and Xander shook his head in disbelief.

"'Now' being the ultimate caveat emptor, right?"

"He had a right to know! Just like he has a right to know that she's back now!"

Xander shook his head emphatically and jabbed his forefinger at her like a disapproving kindergarten teacher. "No! No right to know! He left, and when he did, he cashed in that card. He doesn't have any right to—"

As if a switch had been flipped, his voice died suddenly. The complete silence in the room, the shifting of all eyes onto Willow, told him that they had all arrived at the same conclusion he had and at the same time.

"You already called him. You called him when she went missing."

"Xander, I had to."

"Had to!"

"He cares about her! And she cares about him. They're friends. Plus—" Her voice dropped by decibels, and she looked off to the side as if shy or embarrassed. "I thought he could help us. I thought he might have some connection to the magical underground in L.A. That he'd know what I—that he'd know how to bring her back."

"_And_?"

"And…he didn't."

Xander exhaled noisily and smacked his palm against the doorframe. "Well, then. I guess that proves how helpful _he's_ going to be."

"Well," said Anya, the only one brave enough to break into their argument, "at least it can't hurt anyone...I mean, unless she has sex with him. Because then it could hurt everyone. But as long as she doesn't…"

She looked around the room with an expression of puzzlement, clearly not understanding why no one seemed to concur, or why they were all looking at her as if she had just grown fins and a tail. "Right?" she pressed.

Finally Willow, who was the last person on earth anyone expected to agree with Anya, and who spoke with obvious reluctance, echoed, "It can't hurt anyone…"

* * *

* * *

For a few minutes, all he could hear was the sound of his own ragged breathing.

His eyes were tightly screwed shut, his lips parted, his muscles clenched. He couldn't move; he couldn't even think. All he could do, in that brief span of forever, was pant hoarsely and hope that he didn't fall into unconsciousness. Because it was beyond extreme, that sensation. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was almost unbearable.

It felt _so very good._

She seemed to sense his every thought, his every feeling. He felt her hands in his hair, gently stroking, brushing back those loose curls that fell across his forehead no matter what he tried to do to tame them. And he heard her voice, soft and low, so incredibly gentle…

"It's all right, William."

It was more than all right. It was ecstasy. She was sitting astride his body, naked, riding him as she would have ridden a cantering horse…riding him as she would have ridden a wave rolling onto the shore. Smooth rise and fall…slightly forward then slightly back… supple…unhurried…

Perfect.

Without realizing it, his breathing slowed to match the rhythm of her movements. He wanted his body to do the same, to follow the pace she had set; but, it refused to obey him. It felt too good. So good he couldn't endure it…so good that, even as he struggled to resist the impulse, he found himself squirming beneath her. His hips, he just managed to keep still because he was afraid of hurting her. But his legs trembled and jerked, his feet thrusting into the soft feather mattress, his toes working against the rumpled bedclothes that lay bunched at the foot. He continually shifted his upper body, almost convulsively, as though he had suddenly been overtaken with a serious case of the Saint Vitus' dance. He gripped the bottom sheet in both fists and raised his shoulders off the bed, almost as if he were about to sit up.

She laughed at him, gently pressed her soft palms against his chest, and held him down.

"Calm down," she whispered. "You've got time. I'm not going anywhere."

Her voice was so soothing…his pounding heart eased a little at the sound of it. Then, the motion of her hips stopped, and he was slowly able to pull together his shattered thoughts enough to open his eyes. Wide, awestruck, and very blue, they stared at her, taking in every adored feature.

"I'm sorry—" he began. His voice was husky, his throat dry. She raised a hand to his mouth, covered his lips with her fingertips to block the words.

"Hush…don't start that again."

Leaning down, she kissed his throat. Her hands traveled from his chest to his arms, grazing lightly upward until, finally, her fingers laced with his own. And it might have appeared that she was pinning him down—or trying to—except that the pressure of her hands was barely there and certainly not restricting.

"Tell me how it made you feel when I did that. Did it feel good?"

William swallowed when she asked that question, and he felt the part of himself that was inside her throb an eager response.

"I—I didn't know anything could feel so—"

"What?" she whispered.

"—extraordinary."

She smiled then, and he could tell by her eyes that he had amused her. But her eyes were also full of understanding, of profound love. Her eyes told him that he was _hers_, and that she was, in some way, delighted by his reaction to her body…by the desperate fidgeting he could not control.

Suddenly, she released his hands in order to grip his shoulders. She rocked her body to the side and dragged him along with her; and, although it wasn't easy shifting positions without breaking their connection, somehow it happened. Then, he was on top of her, nuzzling at her soft neck as he thrust into her. Inexperienced as he was, he went about his lovemaking with more ardor than discretion. It might have been uncomfortable for her—probably, it was—but she uttered no complaint. Instead, she lay beneath him, stroking his cheeks and his chest…the taut arms on which he braced himself. She let him experiment. She let him learn.

Then, finally, he fell into the right rhythm, one that wasn't quite so frenzied. One that gave her as much pleasure as she provided him. She moaned and clung to him; and, to his astonishment, her sex suddenly grew very hot around him and broke into a series of intense spasms that seemed to last forever. She wrung his climax from him with the force of her own, and it was much more intense than the one brought about earlier by the attentions of her hand. He felt a fierce sense of possession as he emptied himself into her, filling her body with the very essence of his life. And in the small corner of his brain that was still capable of thought, even in the throes of passion, a voice whispered with jealous satisfaction:

_She's mine now. No one else can ever have her._

* * *

* * *

Spike moaned sharply as he drifted back to consciousness, though whether that was from the pleasantness of the memory or the extreme discomfort he felt in waking up, it was hard to say. The pain in his hands was excruciating, and he didn't remember lying down or falling asleep. Best he could figure, he must have collapsed.

He sat up slowly, wincing. When he looked down at his hands, he saw that they were all shades of black, blue, and purple. So swollen the skin was shiny, stretched tight around them. His fingers were twisted, almost useless, and the corners of his palms were crooked; the lower part of his wrists didn't look a lot better. He sighed at the sight and brought his legs up so that he could rest his forehead on his knees.

It hurt like buggery, but that wasn't what was worrying him. They'd heal soon enough…a bit of blood, a few days rest, and they'd heal. But the question was: how to get his blood? There was a good stock in his little refrigerator upstairs, but there wasn't a chance he could pick up the pints to drink them. He wouldn't even be able to get the lids off the jars, for Christ's sake. He couldn't even climb the stairs to get to the upper level of his crypt even if he did figure out some ingenious way to feed himself. Not to even mention what would happen to him if some nasty thing decided it wanted to claim jump on his crypt. Until his hands healed, he would be completely helpless.

As if to prove a point, there was a sudden slam upstairs—the distinct sound of footsteps crossing the floor as someone stepped through the doorway they had just flung open.

"That's just bloody great," he muttered. He used the wall as a brace, and pushed himself up and onto his feet. For all the fucking good _that_ would do. He certainly wasn't in any condition to help himself if there was a fight.

Then, a voice called his name. It was tentative, full of concern; and, although he definitely did not believe in a heavenly body these days, she sounded to him like a host of angels as she uttered a single word:

"Spike…?"

"Down here, Bit."

His voice was shaky as he called to her, and he silently cursed himself for it. But bleeding hell, he was in pain. He could hear Dawn descending into the narrow tunnel, her cautious movements having more to do with the rickety ladder than with him. When her trainers touched the dirt floor, he heard her sigh in relief—but quiet, clearly not wanting him to hear. He smiled. Cheeky little monkey; just like her sister, she never wanted to show any fear.

He considered hiding his hands from her, but he knew it was useless. Dawn was too bright not to notice it if he constantly kept them behind his back or tucked into his coat; it would just be an insult to them both. Still, the torches had burned out, and it took her a moment to take note of his injuries. When she did, she made a little cry of alarm.

"Spike…what happened? Who did that to you?"

"Nothing, nobody. Did it to myself, but it's all right."

"It's all right? _All right_?" She echoed. Her voice held a mixture of horror and scorn. "Did I just have a stroke, or are you completely insane? 'All right.' That's a stupid statement even for you!"

As much pain as he was in, he managed a genuine grin at that. Jesus, that kid was brutally honest. A year from now, she'd have her sister running for the hills. Few years after that, and she'd be a right peng. Too bad Buffy couldn't be like her and possess acerbic wit without being cruel about it. Not that he wasn't accustomed to cruelty, having dispensed more than his fair share of it over the years.

"What are you doing here, anyway? Little nosh like you, running around in the dark by yourself. Somebody's bound to fetch a nibble."

"It's not dark. It's almost lunchtime…almost noon."

"Hm. I must've missed the trolley on that one. But why are you here, when Big Sis is home now? Shouldn't you two be having a tender moment?"

"She's sleeping. She's been…doing that a lot."

"I see," he said. But he didn't really. He looked down at his mangled hands.

"Anyway, I wanted to check on you. Last night, you seemed…" Her voice trailed away.

"Well, it was a little bit of a shock…seeing her burst in like that. Seeing her"—he swallowed—"like that."

"She's pretty shocked herself, I think. Or, she's in shock anyway." She paused. "The others think she was in some kind of hell dimension."

"And what do you think?"

"I think hell dimensions must be handing out some really nice clothes these days."

He snorted. "You're the only one of the lot that has a bit of sense, you know that?"

The corner of her mouth turned up with self-conscious pleasure at the praise, but her blue eyes darted to his injured hands in concern.

"Can I…help you fix them?" she asked.

Spike was about to tell her no, not to be foolish. That they'd mend on their own. But it suddenly occurred to him that she could help a great deal, and that it would speed up that healing process considerably.

"Could get some bandages," he told her gruffly. "Not gauze…something stronger. Some tape. Something to make a couple of splints. And—and—" He suddenly stammered, embarrassed by the final request, almost reluctant to make it.

"What?" she said softly.

"I…can't get to my blood."

"I'll get it for you. Do you want it now?"

He shook his head. "After. Drugstore now. I've got a bit of cash in my left front pocket; you can get it out if you promise to steer clear of the knackers."

She laughed. "Pedo."

He mock-scowled at her. "I _said_ steer clear."

"I know. I'm just kidding. But don't worry about the money; I've got it covered."

She did an about-face then, and left without saying goodbye. He could hear her climbing the ladder, then running lightly across the crypt floor. When the door slammed shut behind her, he allowed himself to drop back down to the dirt, sitting with his back against the wall.

After a moment's thought, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The pain in his hands didn't seem quite so bad now.

* * *

* * *

Dawn was back so quickly he knew she hadn't stood in line at the drug store to buy the stuff; she must have nicked it. Maybe that should've bothered him; it certainly would have bothered her sister. But he didn't have a soul to weigh him down, and all he really felt was a mild rush of pride. A feeling of gratitude for her efforts.

She had to set the bones for him. He walked her through it, moaned into his knees when the pain got too bad to hold back. The sight and sound of him being so weak, so wounded, frightened her. Her hands trembled as she tended to him, but she persevered and did an admirable job given what she had to work with. Afterward, she fetched him a container of blood and a bottle of bourbon from upstairs, sat with him and held the glasses to his mouth while he drank from them.

"You'd better get back to Buffy," he said eventually. "She's probably awake now, and you've got to keep those idiots from harassing the piss out of her."

She nodded and stood up, walked to the ladder. But just before she reached it, she turned around to look at him.

"It was because of Buffy, wasn't it?"

"What?" But he was just stalling; he already knew what the question would be. And he was right.

"Your hands. It's because of Buffy."

"Something like that."

"But why would you—aren't you happy? I mean…she's back."

_She's back..._

"Don't really know what I'm feeling right now, Bit." He cleared his throat and looked away from her. "Go on. Best get on home now."

She nodded, but didn't move.

"Spike…"

"What?"

"There's one more thing. Something I want to ask you."

The hesitance in her voice instantly made him suspicious. "Yeah?"

"That dress…what Buffy was wearing when she came home last night…it didn't look like something from another dimension."

"Reckon not."

"It looked like here. It looked really old fashioned, but it looked like here." She paused, clearly waiting for him to say something. When he didn't, she continued doggedly. "I thought that since you're old—or, I mean, since you've been around a long time, maybe you could tell me…"

He swallowed and fixed his eyes on the wall. At first, it seemed he wasn't going to answer her. Then, very softly: "Looked Victorian to me. Don't know for sure—can't exactly remember—but it looked—"

_Like Elizabeth._

"—late Victorian."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"And there's one more thing."

"You said there was some_thing_ you wanted to ask me before," he said irritably. "Singular form."

"I know. It's kind of important, though."

Heavy sigh from him. "Go on, then."

"She—she's wearing this bracelet, and she won't take it off. It looks really expensive."

She wouldn't take it off; he could have cried at that.

Does she still want me—?

He dropped his head back against the wall, deliberately hurting himself in order to clear his thoughts so that he could talk. "Yeah…and…?"

"She's got a mark on her chest…like a…like..." she faltered, clearly too embarrassed to go on. "Well, anyway, at first I thought that maybe she'd been…hurt or something. That someone had forced her to…"

"Anybody who tried to rape the Slayer would have his todger cut off and fed to him pretty quick," he answered.

"I thought of that, too. And then later… when she was going to sleep…she wouldn't let me take off that bracelet to clean it off. Do you think that maybe—"

"Maybe _what_?" His voice was harsh to cover up the extreme sense of vulnerability he felt. Dawn winced at his tone, but she finished her thought.

"Maybe she _wasn't_ so unhappy there. Maybe someone was really nice to her. Like, really nice," Her voice choked then, as she added very softly, "Maybe she didn't want to come home."

* * *

* * *

With the first day of autumn just a little over two weeks away, Angel was more than ready for the end of summer. The hot weather seemed to have opened the floodgates for demonic activity, and ever since his return from Pylea, he had been working feverishly to try to stem the tide. The previous night had been no different, no less draining, than the ninety that came before it; and after he arrived home, he barely had the energy to eat before he collapsed, fully clothed, onto his bed.

That was where he was still lying, six hours later, when the telephone rang and woke him.

"Oh, damn," he moaned into his pillow. "Damn, damn, double damn…I'm too old for this. It. Never. Frigging. Ends."

Without sitting up, he reached his arm toward the nightstand and blindly groped for the telephone. In a voice still considerably muffled by the pillow, he said crossly, "If this is about AT&T, I really don't want to hear it."

"Angel?"

The voice—a woman's—was so familiar that it seemed to reach across the distance separating them. A feeling so real it was almost like the caress a hand.

"Willow," he said. "What—?"

"She's back, Angel. Buffy's back."

Now, he did sit up. He was certain that if his heart could beat, it would be hammering his ribcage wide open.

"How did you—_when_ did you—?"

"Last night."

"Well, is she okay? Where was she?"

A brief silence.

"We…we don't know where she's been," said Willow finally. "She hasn't really been talking. She's been…strange. Different, you know? Like something happened to her."

"Did the spell go wrong when you brought her back?" Angel demanded quickly. "Did you do something wrong?"

_Because if you did, if you hurt her, I will crack open your head._

"No, I didn't do anything wrong," Willow bit back. Her tone implied she had been through this argument before with someone else. "She just—wherever she was—it seems to have really affected her. And not really in the hugs-and-puppies way. You know?"

He knew.

"Well, what do you—what can I—?"

"You were the only one she really opened up to after her mom's funeral. I mean, aside from Dawn. And even then…I mean, you know a thing or two about hell dimensions," Her voice trembled slightly, and his keen ears could hear her shifting the phone from one side of her head to the other. "I thought that maybe you could…"

Angel bolted off the bed as if spurred by a sudden jolt of electricity. "I'll come," he said. "Right now. I'll be there—"

His gaze shifted to the windows, to the strip of bright afternoon sun that sifted through the crack between the drapes.

"Tonight," he amended in a voice that was husky with emotion. "I'll be there tonight."

* * *


	45. Chapter FortyFour

**Chapter Forty-Four**

Very slowly, Spike allowed his head to drop forward from the support of the tunnel wall. Dawn was staring at him expectantly, her blue child's eyes anxious and almost tearful. He could see from her expression that she was seeking some type of reassurance from him, some show of solace. But he had none to give her. Because if it were true—God, if Buffy _hadn't_ wanted to return—then the betrayal wouldn't seem quite so complete. She'd lied to him, of course. He couldn't forget that; he wouldn't allow himself to forget that. It was too bloody important. But, maybe it hadn't been a game for her. Maybe the lies weren't meant to hurt him after all.

Maybe.

He tilted his head at Dawn, narrowing his eyes, not quite believing the words. But wanting to. Oh, yes. Wanting to very badly. It took him two or three tries before he was able to answer, and when he did, his voice sounded weak and ineffectual.

"And what makes you think that, Bit?"

Dawn raised her eyebrows a fraction of a centimeter. "Uh…the way she's acting makes me thing that…I've told you how weird she's acting…" She spoke slowly, heavily, as if to a very young and very dimwitted child.

Spike shrugged impatiently and looked away. He wanted her to say something more. He wanted to shake out of her the answer that he wanted. He clenched his jaw and said very carefully:

"Could just be trauma, you know. Her little gang of idiots might be wrong—they bloody are wrong—in their line of thinking when it comes to where she ended up. But coming back—traveling across the goddamned fabric of time—it would fuck with anyone's mind. Reckon she's no different in that respect. Maybe she's just…stunned."

There was an odd look on Dawn's face, one full of not just skepticism, but something else as well, something he couldn't quite define. He almost expected her to argue with him some more, to try to convince him of Buffy's unhappiness, her longing for another life, another place. He _wanted_ her to insist upon it; he wanted that reassurance.

But after a moment's hesitation, she nodded slowly, and agreed in a quiet voice: "Maybe." It made him want to slap her. However, the desire quickly left him when she added, with an arch look, "But there's still the bracelet."

"Yeah…what about it?" The words sounded hard, off putting; but his tone was anything but. His tone was low and calculating, leading her to the place he wanted so badly for her to go.

She looked annoyed. "Well, you don't really think she'd be so attached to it if she wasn't attached to the person who gave it to her, do you? If she was in a place that she hated—somewhere they were mean to her—she'd be glad to get rid of the thing. She'd be ready to hock it. God knows we could use the money—"

He raised his eyebrows at the last.

"Money troubles?"

Dawn's gaze shifted away from him. "Nothing," she muttered. "Never mind. She doesn't even know about it yet."

"From the sound of it, she's probably better off not," he replied with a shrug. He looked down at his bandaged fingers to hide the concern in his eyes.

"It's all Willow's fault."

"What is? The cash problem?"

"Everything!" she burst out angrily. "She was the one who decided to move in after Buffy left—she and Tara—so I wouldn't be alone. Giles would've done it, but Willow wanted to instead. It was _her_ idea to clear out the bank account to pay bills—"

"Bills got to be paid, Bit."

"Yeah, so does rent. And she's not paying any!"

He snickered at that.

"I'm serious, Spike! She acts like she owns the place; she acts like she owns all of us. She keeps making decisions for everyone. Like calling Angel—"

His head shot up as if a switch had been flipped.

"She's calling Angel?"

* * *

* * *

Buffy slept until well into the afternoon, slept so deeply that no sound could penetrate it. She slept without dreams, without pain. She wished she might never wake up.

She did, of course. Awoke to the sound of a door slamming below, to the sound of Dawn's voice asking someone (Who else was here? Did they live here?), if Buffy was awake yet. An indistinct response from the other person, and then Buffy heard Dawn's light tread on the stairs. It paused outside her door, and she could almost see her sister through the thick, white-painted wood, standing with one hand resting on the doorknob, silently contemplating whether she should knock. After a moment, Buffy heard a sigh, and then Dawn's footsteps once again, this time fading away as she continued down the hallway.

With a soft groan, Buffy threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Her body felt sore from striking the pavement the night before, but she hardly noticed the discomfort. There was a hollow ache in her chest, as if someone had carved out a piece of her. And, as the merciful numbness of the night before began to dissipate, it was replaced by an overwhelming sense of horror. She was back.

And she hadn't changed anything.

Tears welled in her eyes at the thought. Because, as painful as it would have been to believe that William had lived out his life and died in the past—even with another woman, a family—it was so much worse to see what he had become. His soft features hardened with cruelty; his blue eyes jaded. Not William at all, but just his body, just a host for that—for that—

_Monster._

But even as she thought it, she felt a flicker of doubt. The night before, his eyes hadn't been jaded, or hard. They were stunned, confused, blatantly hurt; they looked just like—

_Stop it_, she told herself angrily. _It's not him. He might look like William; he might even have some of the same characteristics. But it's not him._

Annoyed with herself for even considering it, she marched over to her closet and flung open the door. For a moment after, she paused before the row of hangers. All those familiar clothes, so pretty and stylish, seemed oddly at variance with her glum mood. After a moment of indecision, she chose a pair of blue jeans. From her dresser, she pulled out the first shirt she came across: a long-sleeved gray Henley that had once belonged to Riley. Since its liberation from him, she had used it as a sleeping garment. It was too large for her, and it was indescribably ugly; but she couldn't bring herself to care about clothes right now, and she didn't have the energy to look for a different one, so she pulled the shirt over her head.

She brushed her hair into a ponytail and applied some light makeup to cover up (or attempt to cover up) the ravages of grief. But when she reached for the bottle of cologne on her nightstand, she stopped before her fingers could brush the slick glass. It was vanilla-scented, her favorite; but, somehow, it didn't really feel like _her_ anymore. Or, at least, it didn't feel like the person she wanted to be. The person she had spent five months of her life pretending that she was. That person—the prim little Victorian archetype—had smelled of violets. Her perfume was made of fresh violets, so that it was sweet and heady, not at all overpowering. She'd picked it out herself, had never used anything else since the day he nuzzled her ear and told her she smelled lovely. She closed her eyes and remembered how _he_ smelled, how soft the skin of his neck felt when she kissed him there.

She stroked her fingertips over the bracelet, opened her eyes to look at it. There was dirt between the stones, and the gold had been scratched by the pavement; it would need to be polished by a jeweler. She knew it looked odd with her casual attire, but to take it off was out of the question. It was the first gift he had ever given her, and the only part of him she had left. She would never take it off.

The house seemed eerily quiet as she padded, barefoot, down the hallway to the bathroom. No lights were on; there was no sound. Was it for her benefit, because they thought she was still sleeping? She supposed she should have felt grateful for the thoughtfulness, but instead found herself resentful and uneasy, wishing for some noise to crack through the funereal silence. Again, when she entered the bathroom, she was struck by how bright it was, how ominously cheerful, like the smile of a friend who was about to stab her in the back. She wet her toothbrush underneath the tap, applied Aquafresh; but when she looked into the mirror, she froze. She looked—

_Just like my old self._

It should have been comforting to see how easy it was to slip back into that life—_her_ life—but it felt anything but. As she stared at her reflection—blush, lip gloss, eyes lined with kohl—she wondered what he would think of her now. It wasn't hard to guess: he wouldn't like it. She could almost hear his voice in her head, gentle, wheedling, telling her how unnecessary it all was. Her face was too lovely for paint; cosmetics were for cheap or ugly women. Those hoop earrings were too large for her delicate ears, and why must she bind her hair, when it was so lovely falling down her back? To say nothing of the shock he would express over her clothing. A brief and watery smile flashed across her face at the mere thought of it.

But above everything else, she new he would have been concerned by her expression. He could read her so well, those innocent blue eyes searching her own, his soft mouth turned slightly up at one corner in the hint of an anxious smile. Because the face in the mirror was already regaining some of its old hardness—the protective mask she had shed for him in London. He had worked so diligently to remove that wary look from her eyes, the bitterness from her smile. It would have killed him to see them return.

Her eyes filled at the last thought. It would have killed him.

_Spike._

Determined to push the thought from her mind, she shoved the toothbrush into her mouth, scrubbing with far more force than necessary and making her gums bleed in the process. But she didn't even feel it. She didn't feel anything; she wouldn't let herself. Already, she could feel herself teetering on the brink of hysteria. If she brought Spike into the equation, she knew she would fall, painfully and irretrievably, down the precipice into insanity.

Trying unsuccessfully to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat, Buffy replaced her toothbrush, rolled down the long sleeves of her shirt to conceal her bracelet, and headed downstairs.

She didn't really have any other option.

In the kitchen, Willow was rinsing an empty soup bowl under the tap. She looked up sharply when Buffy walked in, an insincere smile fixed upon her face.

"Hey! You're awake," she said brightly. "I was starting to wonder if you were going to sleep the whole day away."

"Long trip," said Buffy dryly.

"Oh, yeah. Cross-dimensional jetlag must be—"

"What're you doing here?"

Willow looked taken aback by the question, although clearly it was not asked with any malicious intent. In fact, Buffy looked genuinely confused. After all, her friend had not lived there before her disappearance. When Willow did not answer her right away, she pressed:

"Do you live here now?"

"Well…yeah, we do. We have been ever since…" Willow's voice trailed away uneasily, and it took her a moment to regain her bearings. "Someone had to look after Dawn, so Tara and I…"

"Tara lives here, too?"

"Um, yeah," Willow replied. Her face was red; clearly, she was as uncomfortable with this rapid-fire examination as Buffy had been with hers the previous night. Her voice took on an edge of defensiveness as she began, "See, the thing is—"

"Does anyone else live here?"

"No. Just us. And Dawn, of course."

Buffy nodded, her eyes glancing across the kitchen surfaces, as if trying to determine whether they, too, had changed in her absence. "Where do you sleep?" she asked finally.

"Well, the only other bedroom besides yours was your mom's. And since it was the biggest—"

A flicker of annoyance crossed Buffy's face, and Willow's voice stopped so abruptly it sounded as if someone had pulled a plug.

"It was the only other one," she said softly. "The only one besides yours. And we knew you'd definitely be coming back—"

"Yeah," said Buffy in a bitter tone. "I was definitely coming back."

She pretended not to notice the questioning look Willow gave her, but the latter refused to be ignored. She dropped the bowl into the dish-drain and stepped forward to take Buffy's hand.

"Hey," she said comfortingly. "It's all right. Whatever happened to you—wherever you were—it's okay. You're home now."

Buffy yanked her hand away. "No," she said quietly. "I'm really not."

She left the room without saying anything more.

* * *

* * *

_She's calling Angel._

Spike sat with his back to the tunnel wall, his head resting lightly against the rough stone. His eyes were glazed, and outwardly, at least, he appeared tranquil. Inside, he was anything but. His emotions were tangled and inconsistent, cycling rapidly between stupidly hopeful and bitterly cynical. All of his thoughts, all of his feelings, revolved around that one sentence: Willow was calling Angel.

Calling him for _what_ was what Spike wanted to know. He asked the Bit, but she didn't seem to understand it much better than he did. All she knew was that Angel had been here not too long ago, just after Joyce's funeral, and that Willow had called him then, too. Willow thought that if anyone could get Buffy to talk about her experience, it would be Angel.

Because, of course, Buffy loved Angel.

The mere thought of it enraged him, although he knew, to a certain extent, it was probably true. Long before she'd known who he was—who he'd been—she'd loved Angel. That love might've faded over time—for God's sakes, it should have if she gave a tinker's damn for _him_—but knowing Buffy, it hadn't died out completely. She probably still loved him as a friend. At the very least, as a friend.

It felt like a betrayal.

Still, when you got right down to it, _he'd_ betrayed _her_ as well. The very act of falling in love with her again—falling in love with her slayer identity—was an act of betraying what he'd had with her one hundred and twenty-one years prior. He'd been with Drusilla before that, of course. For well over a century, he'd been with Dru. He'd laughed with her, cried with her, cursed her, fucked her every which way from Sunday…and that was all right. Because, although he loved Dru, and although he would have done damn near anything to keep her safe and happy, he was not _in_ love with her. He could shag Dru a dozen times a day, every day, for a hundred and eighteen years and—after a certain point at least—it didn't seem like he was being unfaithful to Elizabeth's memory.

When he fell in love with Buffy, however, it felt like infidelity. Of course, at first, he hadn't known that he loved her. He had pushed it down and denied it for three years. But it had been there since the beginning, and a part of him had known that. He hated himself for the weakness he felt when she looked at him, and he hated her twice as much for the same reason. He hated her for making him love her, when his heart was supposed to belong to only one person. It had nearly killed him to choose Drusilla over her…to leave her to Angelus' cruelty while he drove off into the night. But it was his choice. Because he thought that, at least if she were dead, then the confusion would go away, the scab she had ripped from his heart would once again heal over, and he could return to the life he was meant to lead.

And it didn't.

And he hadn't.

Yeah, same woman or not, when you came right down to it, he'd been, in a way, very disloyal.

And, now, Willow was calling Angel. _Angel_, for Christ's sake.

_Pour a little more salt into that wound, you bitch,_ he thought savagely, wishing Willow were there so he could tell it to her face. Because she'd already fucked him over once. And now—

_She's calling Angel._

He wished he had a cigarette. His nerves were all but shot. There was a pack in his coat pocket, but there was no point in going through the struggle and discomfort of trying to get it out. His hands were on the mend, what with the blood and the splints; but his fingers were in no shape to work a lighter.

Dawn had been thoughtful enough to leave him some bourbon to ease the pain, and for that, he was everlastingly grateful. But she didn't leave much—only a single glass with a straw in it—because, as she said, she didn't want him drinking himself into a stupor. He'd felt like reminding her it wouldn't be the first time if he did, but that seemed poor form considering all she'd done to help him. And she did leave him blood, pints of it, the entire supply from his fridge. She'd scattered the containers about on the flat stone floor, near enough so he could reach them without much effort, but not so near he might accidentally tip them over if he fell asleep. Over the course of the day, he grew quite adept at transferring his straw from one vessel to another using his teeth. He was ravenously hungry, as he always was when he was injured; and the blood was more healing than time...more healing than the makeshift splints Dawn had constructed. The more he drank, the stronger he felt. And the stronger he felt, the more restless he became, until, finally, he could not bear to sit any longer.

He staggered to his feet in the same ungainly manner as before, though with less difficulty, and paced a circle around the dark tunnel. He wondered what time it was. It seemed like hours since Dawn left. He wondered if it was dark yet.

_Don't be daft,_ he told himself. _Doesn't make one damned bit of difference if it's dark. You can't bloody well go out into it; you can't confront her about this._

That was true. He couldn't. But—

_She's calling Angel._

It was maddening, the mere thought of it. Angel, the smug bastard; the source of so much of his misery. Angel: the wrench that always seemed to get thrown into his life to fuck up the works.

_If he touches her—if he motherfucking touches her—_

Then, what? He was in a hole under the goddamned ground; he wouldn't even know about it.

Yes, he bloody would!

Plowing through the empty glasses on the floor, and breaking most of them, Spike swiftly made his way over to the ladder. Tilting his head back all the way, he could just make out the opening, the dim moonlight that filled the crypt's upper level. Then, his gaze dropped a little, and he counted the rungs of the ladder. Nine. Not that bad, all things considered.

He looked down at his hands. They were knitting together, it was true; but the fingers were far from functional. He could hardly bend them, and his grip had all the strength of a nine-year-old girl's. Still, the steps weren't steep, and he had regained enough strength he figured he could managed them fine, even without the use of his hands for balance and leverage.

And he was right.

True, he didn't exactly rush up the steps with his usual quick grace, but he didn't fall down them, which was pretty much all he was asking for at the moment.

Dawn had shut the heavy iron door behind her when she left the crypt, but that wasn't any hurdle for a vampire whose legs were uninjured and who was used to kicking down doors. He regretted it, in a way. Because the door opened inward, and the only way he could get it open to the outside was to knock it complete off its hinges, which left him with very little privacy until his hands healed and he could fix it. But he'd left the modesty behind long ago, and, anyway, this was far more important.

He felt lightheaded as he strode across the lush and quiet lawn of the cemetery, but that was due more to his rage than his injuries. Each heavy step he took made his head pound with jealous anger, the thought that Willow had called Angel. That Angel could, at this very moment, be talking to _her_. His woman, his sweetheart, his love.

_His._

Spike was so distracted by his thoughts, he didn't notice anything amiss until, suddenly, another vampire stepped between the rows of headstones to block his path.

"Spike," the vampire said, and his tone was anything but affable.

It took Spike a minute to recognize the hulking figure; the game face obscured the vampire's features somewhat. When he finally did put it together, he merely rolled his eyes.

"Oh, you. Sorry, mate. I'm a bit busy for conversation right now."

"This isn't about conversation," the other vampire replied. "This is about debt collection. You owe me money."

"For _what_?"

"The three games of poker you lost. Or, have you forgotten?"

Actually, he _had_ forgotten. The games in question had taken place almost a month before, and he'd been pretty pissed during them. Now that the other vampire (who, as he vaguely recalled, had the unimaginative name of "Tom") mentioned it, he had lost some games that night. He'd paid part of his bets down, but the group had let him put the rest on tick, figuring he'd win back his money another night, anyway. Except that he hadn't, because he'd forgotten all about it. Now, here was Tom standing in front of him, expecting him to shell out four hundred dollars he didn't have, on a card game he couldn't clearly remember.

Buggering hell.

He sighed, told the other vampire humorlessly: "I've got a solid twenty quid in my left front pocket. You can get it out if you promise to steer clear of the knackers."

Unlike Dawn, Tom did not find this remotely funny.

"You owe me four hundred," he said coldly. "That leaves you short…" His voice trailed away, his brow furrowing as he attempted to do the math. Spike rolled his eyes.

"Three hundred and eighty," he said.

"Right. Three hundred and eighty!"

"Well, I don't have it on me right now," Spike told him. His teeth were clenched; he didn't have time for this, not when Angel was coming.

He expected Tom to yield at that; he didn't remember him as being particularly assertive. Instead of leaving, however, Tom stepped a bit closer, his legs spreading apart aggressively.

"Find a way to get it then," he persisted; he was still blocking Spike's path. A low growl sounded from the depths of his throat as he added, "Right now."

"Sorry, not going to happen, mate. I've got somewhere to be."

"It is going to happen right now," Tom snarled. "Or"—he glanced at Spike's bandaged hands—"I'm going to put you down like the crippled dog you are." And, clearly having come prepared, he pulled a wooden stake out of his pocket.

Spike cursed softly under his breath at that, but he didn't hesitate before falling into his demon's face.

_Sorry, Bit. But it looks like I'm going to have to mess up all your good work._

* * *

* * *

Dinner wasn't even over when Buffy rose from the table and announced she was going outside. She said it blandly, but with a clear desire that no one should follow her. No one did, although she could see that it cost them not to. Giles and Anya had come over after closing the shop, and Xander had been there since his construction job ended at five o'clock. Willow and Tara, of course, hadn't left. Or, at least, not for long. There were a few hours of classes, and then they returned, marching into the house as easily as if they had owned it. They were the ones who had cooked dinner.

Buffy hadn't touched her pasta salad and grilled chicken. She didn't want food; she wanted quiet, and there was no quiet to be had while sitting around the crowded dining table. When she left, she could feel their eyes following her to the door; and now, as she sat on the back porch, she could hear them in the kitchen. They were doing the dishes, and talking about her.

She tuned out the muffled sound of their voices, ignored the square of yellow light that filtered through the glass insert of the back door. The solitude of the thing was what was important, and for the first time all day, she finally felt as if she could breathe.

Although she was staring out onto the moonlit lawn, she didn't see his approach. She was staring straight ahead, and he came from the left. The branches of the shrubs rattled as he walked through them, but she was dazed, lost in her thoughts, and she didn't hear them. It wasn't until he was almost beside the steps—it wasn't until he spoke—that she noticed him. When she did, she jumped.

"Buffy…" he said softly, and his voice—his eyes—were just as kind as she remembered them. So kind that they seemed to belie the cruelty, the evil, that she knew had once clouded them. The contrast was so startling that, at first, she couldn't wrap her mind around it.

"…Angel…?"

The corners of his mouth turned up in a tentative smile, although he made no attempt to sit down beside her.

"How'd you know—?"

"Willow called me," he answered softly. "First, she called when you disappeared. Then, last night, when you—well, she called again." His dark eyes narrowed with concern as he took note of her stunned expression. "If you don't want me here—if this isn't what you need right now—then that's fine, Buffy. I'll go. But Willow said—"

"No," she interrupted. "No…it's fine. Stay." She motioned vaguely to the space beside her. "You can…"

He nodded and sat down next to her. He didn't touch her, didn't even look at her, and something in that was oddly restful. Unlike the rest of them, he wasn't making any demands.

He asked gently, "How're you bearing up?"

Buffy continued to stare out onto the darkened lawn. "I don't know," she answered. "I really don't. Isn't that weird?"

"Not really, when you come right down to it." He hesitated, clearly wanting to ask the obvious and clearly uncertain as to whether he should. In the end, he chose not to. She was grateful for that. Undemanding. He was being so—

"What'd Willow tell you?" she asked after a moment.

"Not a lot, beyond the fact that you were back. She said they didn't know where you'd been…she said you seemed pretty stunned by the whole experience. That was about it."

"She thinks I was in some sort of hell dimension," said Buffy.

"Yes."

She turned her head to the side to look at him. He did the same, and for the first time, their eyes met.

"I wasn't."

Angel didn't say anything in response to her revelation. There was an almost imperceptible nod, a sudden searching look in the dark eyes, but nothing more. Nothing demanding. Somehow, it made things much easier.

"Do you remember 1880?" she asked him.

"1880," he repeated, clearly puzzled. "Of course, but why…"

Her gaze never wavered from his.

"London. You, Darla, and Dru were there together; but you didn't always hunt in a group—"

"Buffy, I really don't see—"

"—and one night, just before dawn, you came across a girl in the street. A blond girl. You said she was a ripe plum—you thought she was a slayer—"

A look of extreme horror darkened his eyes at that, and Buffy could see that there wasn't really anything further to say along those lines. He understood.

"My God, Buffy." His voice was so hushed she could barely hear him; there were tears in his eyes. "_That's_ where you were all this time? And you saw—we were—I—"

The horror increased tenfold as he realized exactly what he had tried to do.

"Jesus, Buffy. I almost—"

"It's all right," she cut in quietly. "It wasn't you. I know it wasn't you. It was Angelus."

There was the briefest hesitation on his part, and then he agreed hoarsely. "No. It wasn't me."

After a moment's awkwardness, Buffy dropped her eyes, fixed her gaze on her shoes. "Anyway," she sighed. "That's where I was."

Gentle fingers came down onto her bowed head and stroked through her long hair. She could feel his eyes on her, but the stare wasn't intrusive. Neither was the question that accompanied it.

"Was it terrible for you?"

She knew what he meant. He was asking if she had been abused there, if she'd had enough to eat, if she'd been all alone. But all she could think of was that blinding light, the pony that trembled underneath her and tried to run away. And, most of all, that terrible sense of loss she felt as she was yanked away from William.

She swallowed a sob and nodded her head. "It was terrible."

Before she could fully grasp what she was doing—what _he_ was doing—Buffy found herself in his arms. He was cradling her against his broad chest, and her head was on his shoulder. She was sobbing, and it was the first time in years he had seen her do that. She could tell by the tension in his body that it made him uneasy, and that he didn't know what to do. The uncertainty—the way his arms trembled around her—reminded her strongly of William. When she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend he was William.

"It's okay," he kept saying. He meant it to be soothing, but his voice sounded almost as desperate as she felt. "It's okay, Buffy. Everything will be all right—"

But she knew he was lying.

* * *

* * *

Although the Slayer's house was only a short walk from the cemetery (rather convenient, that), by the time Spike reached it, he was shivering with exhaustion. Blood was seeping through the stiff white bandages that covered his hands, trickling from the dozen or so wounds that Tom had managed to inflict before Spike staked him. And considering how injured he had already been, he hadn't eaten enough that day so that he could afford to lose any.

But he didn't allow that to slow him down.

Nevertheless, he wasn't exactly feeling in top form when he pushed his way through the Summers' back hedge. He stumbled a bit, as he crossed the low wooden border that enclosed the yard. Even as he struggled to regain his footing, he heard the low, sawing sound of a woman sobbing. He could detect the scent of her tears—salty and warm—on the open air.

As angry as he'd been with her—as angry as he still _was_—the realization that she was crying completely undid him. All he wanted, in that instant, was to pull her into his arms and kiss her hair, tell her it would be okay.

And damn it if someone wasn't already doing that job for him.

Spike staggered to an abrupt halt, confusion overriding his senses so that, for a few seconds at least, he had no idea who it was. The scent was familiar—the broad body—but it was so hard to _think_. He couldn't quite piece it all together.

Suddenly, the man's dark head raised; it turned in Spike's direction. Each of them should have been surprised to see the other, but, somehow, they were not. Brown eyes met blue, and they stared steadily at one another; Buffy didn't notice. And although Angel's stare was blank and completely impenetrable, Spike's expression was one of such raw emotion that it left his grandsire in absolutely no doubt of what he was feeling.

His arms tightened around Buffy's shoulders possessively, and as he continued to stare at the younger vampire, his lips quivered in what might have been the shadow of a smile.

* * *


	46. Chapter FortyFive

**Chapter Forty-Five**

Spike wasn't sure why he felt so surprised. This was what she did, right? Hurt him. This was what she always did…what she had always done, even when he was too ignorant to know it. Yet, in spite of everything else that had occurred, he hadn't considered that she might throw herself at Angel. It had been over a century for him, but for her…for her it had only been two days since she had left London, left _him_; and now she was letting that son of a whore touch her, hold her, as if she had never been with him at all. As if it had all meant nothing to her.

A rush of jealousy overtook him, the same sense of overwhelming betrayal that had dogged his thoughts for two days now. He'd spent the last one hundred and twenty-one years aching for her, dreaming of her, and she hadn't even come looking for him when she returned. She was letting Angel hold her. She could have staked him in the heart and it wouldn't have hurt any more. He wanted to hurt _her_; he wanted to hit her. He wanted to beat her until she apologized to him; he wanted her to love him again if he had to force it out of her.

Then, her eyes met his, and they were red and swollen from crying, her eyelashes wet and her cheeks streaked with tears. She looked as lost and vulnerable as she had been the night before—as lost and vulnerable as she had been that first day he had seen her crossing the London street, dressed in rags—and the soft part of his heart, the part that had held her for so long, would not allow him to hurt her more. Even if he could only hurt her with words, he would not indulge in his temper. The demon faded back—William surged forward—and that familiar, protective impulse rose in him. He yearned to hold her, to comfort her the way she had once allowed him to do. He would have done anything—_anything_—to take that grief from her eyes. An almost painful rush of awkwardness and uncertainty washed over him at the unexpected desire, and he had no idea what to do. Except, he knew he had to pull himself together; Angel was watching. He couldn't show any more weakness than he already had.

With some effort, he hardened his heart against her, and gave a derisive snort.

"Better watch where you put those hands, love. Wouldn't want anything unfortunate to occur should Peaches there get too excited. From the looks of him, I'd say it's been a while."

Buffy shoved Angel away from her and rose to her feet. She looked confused by his sudden change in expression, and Spike knew he was hurting her. The tough facade flickered slightly, and he took an uneasy step toward her. "Buffy—"

But before he could finish, Angel was leaping down the porch steps, crossing the lawn so quickly that Spike hardly had time to react before the older vampire grabbed him by the lapels of his duster. There was a struggle between them, but it was brief and ill matched; Spike was too weak from his injuries to offer much resistance. Angel dragged him across the grass, swinging him a full ninety degrees and throwing him into the front of the porch with a force that stunned him. His head struck the railings, and his hands—which he had instinctively put out to brace himself—jolted with an agony that made the previous pain seem negligible by comparison.

"You filthy bastard," Angel hissed, pulling Spike back around so that they were face-to-face, the younger vampire's spine pressed painfully into the stout wooden rails. "How dare you talk to her like that? After all she's been through—"

Spurred into action by the sudden violence, Buffy rushed down the porch steps to where the vampires stood. She grabbed Angel's elbow and yanked him backwards, roughly breaking his grip on Spike. "Stop it!" she shouted.

Clearly startled by her anger, Angel stared at her. "Buffy, you're not seriously going to defend him?" he asked in disbelief. "Are you telling me you don't mind him being here? Willow told me about all those things he did before you were—were sent away. She said he stalked you, sent Drusilla after you—"

She glanced at Spike uneasily.

"I'm _not_ defending him. But I don't need you attacking anyone on my behalf. I can take care of myself!"

"But—"

"I'll handle it," she insisted. "Just…go inside. I'll handle it. We'll talk in a minute."

Angel hesitated, his dark eyes darting from Buffy to Spike. There was no amusement in his gaze now, as he looked at the younger vampire. There was suspicion, jealousy, and poorly concealed rage. Yet, he knew Buffy very well, and he could see from the set of her jaw alone that there was no point in disagreeing; her mind was made up. With a heavy sigh, he finally nodded. "If that's what you want," he told her reluctantly. "But if you need help—if you need me—all you have to do is call."

She nodded silently, and watched as he stalked up the porch steps and into the house. Once the door closed behind him (rather sharply in an expression of blatant displeasure), she turned back to Spike. His heart ached when he saw that her eyes were now cold and distant, closed like doors barred against him.

At first, neither of them spoke. She seemed uneasy, and her gaze shifted from his face down to his hands. When she took note of his injuries—the bloody bandages that were just beginning to unravel—she sucked in her breath.

"Your hands are hurt." Her voice was low, as carefully detached as the rest of her face. Taking her cue, Spike shrugged his shoulders in an attempt at nonchalance.

"Yeah. Well, I got into a fight with a wall."

"It looks like you must have lost," she answered dryly.

"You haven't seen the wall."

It was a lame joke, he knew, and Buffy didn't laugh—didn't even smile—at it. A painfully familiar, painfully _human_, feeling of embarrassment wrung him. She was looking at him with the strangest expression on her face. Her eyes were no longer blank, but filled—very briefly—with an emotion so strong it almost hurt for him to look at it. Just what emotion it was, he couldn't say; but it wasn't one of happiness, or pleasure. Again, there came the insane desire to comfort her, to hold her in his arms. He looked down at his boots, flinching slightly beneath her stare.

"Why are you here, Spike?"

Her tone wasn't loud, nor was it accusatory; but it startled him. Why was he there? Did she really need to ask him that? How could she not know? How could she not have expected him to come? Did she think he didn't recognize her? Did she think he wouldn't remember—?

Confused, he shifted his eyes back up to her.

"You know why."

But Buffy shook her head, her eyes and tone suddenly stony as she answered: "I really don't. Why don't you enlighten me?"

The muscles in Spike's jaw flexed, and his newly broken hands twitched with an urge to hit her. Was she trying to hurt him? He had expected that—somewhat—and the incident with Angel only justified his suspicions. But he had never expected her to play dumb.

"You lied to me." He tried to sound harsh and angry; but his voice cracked, and he only ended up despising himself more. Weak. He was so goddamned weak.

Again, Buffy shook her head. This time, she wasn't even looking at him. "I lied to _him_," she said quietly. "To William. And I regret that more than I can even—But I didn't lie to you."

The words cut into him like a lash; it hurt so badly he didn't even notice the tears glinting in the corners of her eyes as she turned her head away. Anger mingled with confusion and pain, and he demanded in a harsher tone, "What the sodding hell is that supposed to mean?"

"What I mean is that I'm not stupid," she replied with maddening calm. "You can convince yourself that you're the same person as him; you can tell yourself that all you want. It doesn't make it true."

She might just as well have kicked him in the gut; he couldn't even answer. If he'd looked at her, he would have seen the sudden, fleeting expression of pain in her eyes; he would have seen how difficult it was for her to say. But he didn't look at her.

"Look," she said in a softer tone, after a moment of silence. "I know that you have—that you must remember some of the things that happened in his life. I know it probably seems like you're the…but, Spike, it's just…it's not true."

His throat constricted as if he might cry. He knew that if he did, he might as well stake himself, because he'd never be able to face her again after that. But he fought down the urge, and cleared his throat gruffly, told her in a voice that was harsh with pain: "How can you even say that? How can you fucking _think_—?"

"Because he's not a murderer!" she screamed. He glanced up, startled by her hysterical tone. She looked angry enough to hit him. "He's not a murderer," she repeated shakily in a quieter tone. "He's not—he wasn't—and—and you are. William was a good man, a caring person. He would never do the things you've done—"

Rage washed over him at that, and it was followed by the demon.

"It's _your_ fault I'm like this; you drove me to it! You dishonest bitch. I was an idiot back then—a—a limp, sentimental fool—but you made me think you gave a damn. You made me fall in love with you. And then you just took off, left me for dead, left me for Dru. What was I supposed to do when she turned me? If you don't like what I've become, you've only got to look into a mirror to find who to blame for it!"

Then, she did hit him. She backhanded him with enough force to knock him flat. "Don't you dare put this on me! Don't you _dare_! Whatever happened to William wasn't his fault—it couldn't have been—but he died. Drusilla killed him, and you took his leavings; you took his body and his memories. And you were a vampire—a disgusting, evil _thing_—a long time before I met _him_!"

Slowly, painfully, he climbed to his feet. There was blood on his face, and he tried to wipe his bleeding mouth with the back of his arm; but the leather of his coat merely spread it around. He opened his mouth to argue you with her, to curse her—to hurt her. However, what escaped from his lips was anything but what he had planned.

"I love you."

She held up her hand—a gesture strangely reminiscent of the other time he had told her, in the warehouse not so long ago. Or, an age ago, depending on how you looked at it.

"_Don't_ say that."

"You don't want me to say it because you're afraid. Because, you know it's the truth and that I'm the same man I was, just with a hundred years and a thousand dead men at my back. You know you still love me, and it scares the hell out of you!"

Buffy's lips twisted in what could have been the mockery of a smile—and so evocative of the one Angel had just given him that Spike felt sick.

"What happened to Anne?" she asked.

Stricken, for a moment, all he could do was stare at her.

"W—what?"

"Anne," she repeated coldly. "His mother…the woman you claim is _your_ mother. What happened to her? Did she die of tuberculosis? Did she have a heart attack? Was it old age?"

He could feel the sting of tears beginning behind his eyes. He wanted to look away from her, but her gaze seemed to hold him in thrall, and he couldn't break the connection. His throat ached so that his voice was weak when he began lamely: "I…"

But he couldn't finish, and his sudden silence damned him.

"I thought so," said Buffy bitterly. She smiled without humor, and crossed her arms over her breasts. "And you say you're the same person? William loved his mother; he would have killed himself before he would hurt her."

"It wasn't like that—" he began. But she cut him off.

"Don't even bother. You disgust me. I don't want to—I can't even look at you."

She turned on her heel and climbed the steps, disappearing into the house without a look back. But Spike couldn't stop looking. Even after the door closed behind her, he stared at the empty space where she had been.

"It wasn't like that," he whispered.

* * *

* * *

In the kitchen, Angel was in the middle of a stilted conversation with Dawn. Tense and clearly uncomfortable, he was standing against the counter, while Dawn sat at the center island on a stool.

"So…I guess you're in school now, huh?" he asked, making an effort to sound friendly.

She didn't even bother to hide her scorn. "No, I've been cast in an off-Broadway version of _Les Misérables_. I play Jean Valjean. I'll be in drag, but it's a big break for me."

Angel stuttered, clearly at a loss as to what to say. He shot Buffy a pleading look as she walked into the room.

"Dawn, play nice," she said, and dropped wearily onto a stool.

Dawn frowned, irritated by the reprimand.

"_Why_? It was a dumb question." She shot Angel an accusing look. "And why is he even here? Why are you talking to _him_? I heard him yelling at Spike outside. He has no right to come barging in here and acting like he knows what's going on. And it's not even a fair fight when Spike can't use his hands—"

"_Dawn_!" Buffy's voice held a warning note this time. She looked at Angel apologetically. "I'm sorry. She's just—"

She paused, her eyes returning to Dawn suspiciously.

"—forming attachments to completely inappropriate people, apparently. Dawn, how do you know that Spike's hands are hurt?"

Dawn stared back at her, clearly not intimidated by her sister's angry tone. However, she said nothing.

"You went to see him, didn't you?"

"So, what if I did?" she asked. "What business is it of yours?"

"What business is it of _yours_ to be hanging out in a crypt with a vampire? A vampire who, in case I need to remind you, stalked and threatened to kill me just a few months ago."

"Yeah, but he's also done a lot of good since then. He's changed—"

"Has he? I'd really like to know what good he's done, Dawn. Because I don't recall him having done a single thing that wasn't selfishly motivated—"

Dawn hesitated, clearly struggling between her promise to Spike and the desire to prove her sister wrong. But she'd sworn herself to secrecy with Spike, and she kept her word, saying instead: "Well, you've been gone for the past five months, haven't you? How would you even know what's happened since you left?"

"Why don't you tell me then?" Buffy's voice was rising. First Spike and then Dawn; it was too much for her to handle. "Go ahead," she jeered. "Tell me about the Great White Hat and all he's done for the world since I've been away. I'm really interested in knowing!"

Dawn stood up so abruptly her stool crashed to the floor with a thud. "Why don't _you_ tell _me_ what the connection is between Spike and your disappearance!" she snapped.

Angel glanced at Buffy quickly. "What—?" he began.

"I have no idea," she answered, staring at her sister stonily.

"You're the reason Spike broke his hands, pounding against a stone wall! You came back, and he completely flipped out and hurt himself. Don't tell me that's a coincidence."

"And just how in the hell am I supposed to know why he did that?" Buffy demanded. "It wouldn't be the first time he went full-tilt into insanity!"

"Don't even start that—"

Angel glanced apprehensively from one Summers girl to the other. "Maybe I should go," he began.

"No," Dawn interrupted. "Don't bother. I'm going. There's no point in talking to her anyway. She's done nothing but lie since she came back, lie or refuse to talk altogether. Just like everyone else in this place." She grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair and stormed across the kitchen.

"Don't you dare walk out of here, Dawn!" Buffy shouted, as her Dawn reached the door and wrenched it open.

Dawn paused, one hand on doorjamb. She looked over her shoulder, favoring her sister with a single, icy glance.

"Try and stop me," she said, and walked out.

* * *

* * *

Almost two hours later, Angel was making a weary trek across town. There wasn't a chance he could get out of Sunnydale before daybreak; the stars were already beginning to fade from the graying sky. He'd have to get a motel room and stay the night. Part of him had been hoping for an invitation to stay at Buffy's, because he hadn't brought a lot of cash with him. But after the vicious war of words with her sister, Buffy hadn't seemed inclined to offer, and he wasn't going to put her on the spot by asking. Anyway, if memory served, there were a couple of cheap places out by the mall.

Deep in thought, he chewed his bottom lip as he walked. Although he'd tried to tell himself that it was nothing, that all kids were prone to exaggerate, Dawn's words haunted him. He'd made it a point to be honorable, and not to eavesdrop on their conversation when he waited for Buffy in the kitchen. Now, he wondered if he'd made a mistake by distracting himself with that clumsy attempt at conversation with Dawn. Because, he, too, had sensed some sort of link between Spike and Buffy, something secretive and extremely unpleasant. It hadn't occurred to him that whatever had happened between them might have happened during her absence from Sunnydale, but now he began to wonder if Dawn could be right. There were certain things he was only just beginning to remember—things that were suddenly making an eerie kind of sense to him. And he wondered…

He'd tried to talk to Buffy about it, but she'd seemed so shattered. It frightened him, seeing her come unglued like that, and although she didn't break down again, he could sense she was on the edge of it. Perhaps, it would have done her good to finish her cry; he certainly wouldn't have minded comforting her, if that was what she needed. But after her argument with Dawn, she'd avoided touching him. She was also strangely reticent, and all his gentle probing couldn't get a solid bit of information out of her. Although she didn't exactly ask him to leave, the desire was clearly there, and he didn't want to upset her more by forcing an unwanted presence on her. Still, he left with some reluctance. She'd been through so much, and the others seemed to have scattered after hearing her fight with Dawn. Would she have anyone to comfort her, once he had left? Would she even want their comfort?

Angel was so deep in thought over this that he didn't hear the sound of the footsteps behind him, and he wasn't at all prepared for the vicious kick to his lower back that came just a few seconds later. There was an explosion of pain in his kidneys, and he hit the pavement on his hands and knees. Before he could recover, another kick landed on the side of his head, rolling him over onto his back.

Spike was standing over him, his hands bloodied and useless at his sides. His features were twisted with hatred, a thin crust of drying blood streaked across his nose and chin.

He lifted his foot to deliver another blow, but this time, Angel saw it coming and managed to dodge. He jumped to his feet, watching the other vampire warily.

"I don't want to hurt you, Spike."

A bark of laughter at that.

"All you ever do is hurt me," Spike said.

"Well, it's not exactly like you're an innocent victim in all this. Or, do I have to remind you?"

"You don't have to remind me of anything, you fucking bastard. I remember it better than you, because I don't lie to myself about how it all went down."

"Would you just let that go already?" asked Angel wearily. "It was a long time ago, and you know I've changed since then. You _know_ it. I've got—"

"The soul, the soul, the bloody, motherfucking untarnished soul," Spike bit out angrily. "Yeah, got it. You've only sung that song a hundred times. I'm just fortunate that I haven't been around for more than a handful of them."

Angel scowled. "What exactly happened to Buffy while she was gone?" he asked. "And why do I get the feeling that you know? That there's a connection?"

He meant it for a barb, something with which to hurt his grandchilde. But Spike's eyes lit up with a certain gleam of triumph.

"Where do _you_ think she was?" he asked suggestively.

"She told me where she was," Angel said grimly. "London, 1880."

"Well, then. There's your answer."

The very answer he'd been hoping not to hear. Angel grimaced. "You're saying you met her there?" he pressed.

Spike snickered. "There's a rub, huh? That I might've had my hands on your honey before you even knew who she was."

"It was _her_?" Angel said it as a question, but there was no need for him to hear the answer. He could read it in Spike's eyes; he could feel it in his own heart. Buffy was the one Spike had moped over those early days in London. The fiancée he'd cried out for in his sleep; the dead love he, as Angelus, had mocked the younger vampire about.

The thought made him sick.

Spike, however, appeared almost jubilant.

"How's that make you feel?" he asked spitefully. "That I put it to her good and proper, and right under your nose. She loved me in a way she could never love you. She was going to marry me—"

"'Was' being the operative word," Angel interrupted. A crack appeared in Spike's armor at that, and Angel continued with a cruel amusement that was only partly genuine: "She was using you. Buffy's nobody's fool. She had no idea how long she'd be stuck in the wrong century, and she had only so many options for survival. She found some sex-starved idiot willing to pay her way, and she took advantage of it. I think it's pretty clear she regrets that decision now."

There it was—blatant defeat in his adversary's eyes. Despite the satisfaction victory brought, there was a twinge of pity in Angel's heart, and he said in a kinder tone, "You look like hell, Spike. Just…go home and forget this crap. No matter what your obsession leads to you believe, you're not going to get Buffy now; and there's no way you can force her. Just forget it."

Spike's eyes narrowed. Clearly, he was not impressed with the advice. "Can _you_ forget her?" he asked. Angel didn't answer, and, after a moment, Spike shook his head. "Didn't think so," he said.

Without another word, the younger vampire turned around and began to walk back in the direction from whence he came. Angel didn't pursue him, but continued his own journey to the opposite side of town.

He wished he'd never come to Sunnydale.

* * *

* * *

Dawn was sitting cross-legged on the sarcophagus when Spike entered the crypt. She'd lit two candles, and there was enough light in the room for her to see the new damage to his hands. She winced, but she didn't say anything about it. For a few minutes, she didn't say anything at all, and neither did he. He collapsed onto the battered sofa he'd salvaged from the dump a few months before, and watched her out of the corner of his eye.

"I brought you some more blood," she said softly. "You want it now? You're shaking."

"In a minute," he said, and flashed her a pained, but grateful, smile. "Got to rest a little while."

She nodded. Then, after some hesitation: "Did Angel hurt you?"

Sex-starved idiot.

She regrets that decision now.

He drew a shuddering breath and said slowly, "No…he didn't hurt me."

But he had, and Buffy had even more; and, again, Spike felt that shameful urge to cry. He felt Dawn watching him closely, and he turned his face to the wall.

"Spike…what happened between you and Buffy? Something did, didn't it? Maybe when she was away? Maybe you…"

The questions were painful, but Dawn's voice was gentle, as soothing as Buffy's had been so long ago. He knew she wouldn't resent it when he said, "I can't, Bit. Not now."

She uttered a quiet "Okay", but Spike didn't hear her. His eyes were fixed on the wall, all his thoughts focused on the effort of not breaking down. He bloody well refused to cry in front of Dawn. And he didn't.

He jumped when he first felt her arms slide around him. Distracted as he was, he hadn't heard her approach, and his immediate instinct was to pull away. It had been years since he'd felt a caress that wasn't sexual, and it made him uneasy to have Dawn touch him. But when he looked into her eyes, he saw nothing of the crush she had once had on him, but instead friendship, profound understanding. His muscles relaxed then, and his face dropped onto the top of her head. And for the first time in a very long time, he allowed himself the luxury of an embrace from someone who actually gave a damn. He let himself cry.

* * *


	47. Chapter FortySix

**Chapter Forty-Six**

Dawn left Spike's crypt just after daybreak. Overcome by a violent fit of awkwardness, neither of them had spoken after he disentangled himself from her arms; they hadn't even said goodbye when she left. She felt uneasy walking away, but she knew it was what he wanted. Clearly, he felt embarrassed for breaking down in front of her, and when he moved from the sofa to where she had placed his blood on top of the sarcophagus, he carefully avoided her eyes. She wanted to tell him that it was okay, that she didn't think any less of him for being so upset. If anything, she thought better of him, because, in a way, it proved her point to Buffy: he _was_ capable of higher emotions, and he _had_ changed. Still, she knew he wouldn't believe her if she told him; even if he did, he wouldn't want to hear it. The greatest kindness she could do for him, at this point, was to get the heck out of Dodge and pretend the whole thing had never happened. So, after a silent and very self-conscious pat on his back, she had slipped out the crypt's broken door.

The latter worried her a bit. The demon population of Sunnydale being what it was, didn't the lack of a door leave him defenseless to invasion? Then again, it wasn't as if the door had a lock, and even if it had, it wasn't like Spike would actually use it. Dawn figured that as long as he was careful to avoid letting anyone to see he was wounded, he would probably manage all right; she certainly wasn't going to humiliate him further by suggesting otherwise. At any rate, she had other things on her mind.

What had happened between him and Buffy? The question kept circling her mind, as irritating and insistent as a mosquito. Something did happen; of that much, she was positive. And she was equally positive that she had all the clues she needed to solve the mystery, although she couldn't quite put them together to find her answer. But there were so many odd things Spike had said, things about Buffy's clothes and his certainty of time-travel being involved…the persistent way he kept needling her to say, yet again, that Buffy hadn't wanted to return. And the jealousy with Angel, the enraged look in Spike's eyes at the mere mention of him that wasn't _just_ jealousy, or rivalry. In fact, the look was almost proprietary, like the wrath of a wronged lover.

Of course, that was silly.

Wasn't it?

Dawn gnawed on her lip as she crossed the lush green carpet of cemetery grass, weaving through headstones without any clear destination in mind. Angel's ridiculous attempt at friendly banter had kept her from listening in on Buffy's conversation with Spike, as she would have liked to do. So, she had no idea what was said out on the lawn that night. However, the mere fact that they had talked—that Buffy had defended him when Angel hurt him—spoke of some sudden change. Before she had gone away, Buffy—still angry with him for his (admittedly) violent and completely inappropriate attempt at wooing her—had been threatening to stake him herself. Although she'd never followed through with that threat, she had clearly gone out of her way to avoid him from then on. So, the simple fact that she had remained out on the back lawn seemed to Dawn to be quite significant. Not to mention the stricken look on Buffy's face afterward. Something had happened between them, and no one was willing to talk about it; but Dawn was determined to find out what it was. She was positive that if she only knew what had gone wrong, then she could help them fix things.

She cut a sharp right across the cemetery, her strides becoming quick and purposeful as she headed through the side gates. Two thoughts kept coming back to her as she walked. The first was the mark on Buffy's chest, a mark that looked almost like a bruise but that decidedly was not one. To put it bluntly: a hickey. The other was Spike's response to her question about Buffy's dress. _It looked late Victorian._ He'd seemed so troubled when he said it, his voice unnaturally soft and broken. Then, later, there was his insistence that her disappearance had nothing to do with dimension hopping and everything to do with time-travel. _They bloody are wrong,_ he'd said about Buffy's friends. Dawn thought so too, but how did Spike come by his conviction? How could he be so certain unless—

Unless, he _knew._

Dawn had no idea what year Spike was turned; it had hardly seemed important before. She wasn't sure that it was important now. Buffy could just as easily have met him after he was turned. But there was no chance that a meeting like that would have gone well. Spike was with Drusilla back then, and he wouldn't have been interested in Buffy. She wouldn't have been interested in him, either. Not for anything besides a good staking, which she would have to know wouldn't be a good idea. Not to mention, that look in Spike's eyes when Buffy came back, all the pain that her return seemed to be bringing him. Why would it bring him pain, unless he and Buffy had shared something pleasant in the way back when? It wouldn't have. Yet, there was no way Buffy would have given him the opportunity for anything pleasant while he was a vampire. None at all.

Dawn had a vague notion that Giles kept all his Watcher's books at the Magic Box now. He used to keep them at his house, but after he bought the magic shop, he started locking them in the store safe. It seemed safer, and that was where he, Buffy, and the others spent most of their time anyway, so it made sense. It also made things convenient for everyone involved.

And Dawn was now involved.

It was only six-thirty, and the Magic Box didn't open until nine, so Dawn knew she had plenty of time to get there. Eager for answers, she hurried anyway, and drew up at the building's back door before the sun was at its full height in the sky. She felt a twinge of shame even as she jimmied the deadbolt. This was not because of any moral qualms about breaking and entering, but rather because it seemed like a betrayal of Spike. Twice, he had said that he wasn't ready to tell her what had happened. Didn't that insinuate he wasn't ready for her to know? Her shirt was streaked with blood and damp with tears; she didn't want him to feel more upset than he already did. Buffy's right to privacy, however, didn't even enter into her head.

Nevertheless, curiosity won out over loyalty, and she continued her work.

Spike had taught her how to pick a lock a few months back. Or, if he had not exactly _taught_ her, then she had learned by watching him do it. It was the night she found out that she was the Key, and he'd had the back door open in just a few seconds. This morning, it took her much longer, and she was glad she'd allowed herself the extra time. She didn't have a pocketknife, as Spike had that night, so she had to use a strip of discarded metal she'd pulled from the alley dumpster. It was sharp and clumsy, and twice she accidentally cut herself. However, necessity being the mother of success as well as invention, eventually she achieved her goal and the door fell open.

She didn't dare turn on the lights as she made her way across the sales floor, and the blinds were drawn over the big front windows, leaving the place very dark. Blindly, she groped her way through the shelves of merchandise without knocking them over, until, finally, she came to the closed door of Giles' miniscule office. Here, there were no windows, and she flicked on the overhead lights without fear of attracting attention. The combination lock on the big wall safe posed no problem whatsoever; she'd watched them open it a dozen times, and she had sharp eyes. Anyway, the combination was Giles' birthday, an easy one to remember.

The safe was almost as tall as Dawn, and she saw, upon opening it, that it held as many books as it did moneybags. More, in fact, because the money was banked pretty much every day, aside for the small amount kept for the cash register. The register tray and last night's takings were stacked neatly on a shelf near the top of the safe, and piles of books resided on all the lower shelves. Piles upon piles of books, actually, for there were years of Watchers' chronicles and research materials to wade through. The sheer number of them made Dawn anxious. Suppose she couldn't find the right one in time? But, as she sifted through the heavy leather volumes, she saw that there was an order to them. Giles had the books heaped according to age, and the newest ones were on top. Since she had a rough idea that Spike was turned sometime in the 1800s, Dawn dragged out all the books listed for that century, and began to hurriedly rifle through them. His name leaped out at her from a volume from 1880. It wasn't a Watcher's diary; it was a loosely bound collection of vampires' dossiers. As thick as the book was, there were only a few vampires listed in it, so Dawn figured this must be a collection of the worst of the worst, and the thought made her inexplicably sad.

Spike was the fourth one from the front. The first page of his record was pasted with a newspaper clipping, an article gone soft and yellow with age. Dawn had to squint to decipher the blurred text. It read:

**William the Bloody Strikes Again**

_Thirty-one-year-old William Hartley has claimed yet another victim. The body of David Havisham was discovered, Tuesday last, atop a refuse pile behind Pearson's Livery Stable. The state of Mr. Havisham's corpse was reported to be so grisly that police refuse to comment upon it, beyond the fact that it indicates torture by railway spike and death by severe lacerations to the throat. As our readers may remember, a Mr. Charles Archer's body was found in a similar manner on the very lawn of Mr. Havisham several weeks ago. While the causes of their deaths are dissimilar, the infliction of wounds by iron spike is the known modus operandi of William Hartley, and police have no reason to suspect a different assailant. Since Mr. Archer's death, no less than sixteen people have been found tortured in this manner and all, aside from Mr. Archer, have expired due to exsanguination._

Before these terrible crimes began to occur, Mr. Hartley was considered a model citizen. Says Marcus Dodgson of Oxford Street: "Mr. Harte [sic was an odd fellow, very quiet. Yet he seemed gentle and was always exceptionally polite." Following the abrupt disappearance of his mistress, Mr. Hartley himself disappeared for a short period of time. After receiving a hysterical report from a former coachman (one Matthew Collett), police launched an investigation. The body of an unknown person was found in the front garden of Mr. Hartley's home, accompanied by seven more in the cellar. The latter were later identified to be house servants of the family. Both Mr. Hartley and his mother (Mrs. Anne Hartley) were nowhere to be found. A short time after this, Mr. Hartley was discovered to be connected to the murder of his one-time friend and business associate, Mr. Archer. The murders have escalated since that time, and "William the Bloody," or "Spike," as he has come to be known, is still a dangerous presence in our fair city. There have been no signs or sightings of the elderly Mrs. Hartley since early April.

Slowly, Dawn lowered the book onto her lap. Her heart was beating very fast. Perhaps, she should have felt appalled by the gruesome accounts of Spike's early crimes (it _was_ rather hard, reading about his mother), but she was a practical sort of person, and she'd never really hidden from what he was. It was the second paragraph that sent shivers down her spine.

_Following the abrupt disappearance of his mistress…_

She swallowed, clutching the ragged volume in a white-knuckled grip as she whispered to the empty room:

"Buffy?"

* * *

* * *

Willow sighed heavily as she pushed the stack of envelopes and receipts away from her. She leaned back in her chair and stared across the table at Tara in a gloomy sort of way. Her lover stared back sympathetically and offered her the box of doughnuts as if they would, in some way, help to solve her problems.

"That bad?" she asked, as Willow chose a raspberry-filled pastry and bit into it, showering her shirtfront with powdered sugar.

"Worse," mumbled Willow, her mouth full. She swallowed and added, "There's only thirty-five dollars left in the checking account, and the mortgage was due yesterday."

Disturbed by this bit of information, Tara was silent for a moment. Finally, she asked, in an uneasy tone, "W—well, what about the savings account?"

"There is no savings account. We used it to pay off the hospital bills, remember?"

"Oh…right." Tara's face fell into the same melancholy lines as her girlfriend. "What are we going to do?"

"What can we do? Buffy's back, and it's her house. She's going to have to get a job or—or something."

"Yeah, but what about college?"

"She talked about dropping out when her mom died."

"But only temporarily to take care of Dawn, remember? I'm sure she'll want to go back once things are settled."

"Yeah, but…"

"What else can we do?" Tara finished for her. "I know."

"She doesn't know yet," Willow said morosely. "Oh, God. How can we tell her? Do you think she'll even be able to hold down a job? I mean, she already has the slaying, and now she's acting so—so _strange._ Not like herself at all."

"Yeah…but…but we can't keep holding off," Tara said, tapping the stack of bills with her knuckles. "If we do, she could lose everything."

Willow nodded absentmindedly; her thoughts were on a different track now.

"I wonder what went on last night?" she asked, abruptly changing the subject. "Why did Dawn storm out like that? And what was with _Spike_ being here?"

"I don't know. Didn't Angel say anything?"

"No. We were upstairs when he left, remember?"

"But he didn't call, or—"

Willow shook her head, and for a moment, there was silence.

"Did Dawn ever come back?" she asked finally.

"No," Tara replied. "I kept checking her room all night; I left both doors unlocked, just in case. But she never came in. Willow, I'm really worried about her."

"Me too."

"Well, should we—should we go looking for her? Maybe something happened."

"Yeah, but where would we look? We don't even know what direction she was heading in." Suddenly, Willow's eyes brightened. "We could do a locater spell!"

Tara's face relaxed into a smile. "Good idea. I think we already have all the stuff we need—"

She ran upstairs to check and was back in only a moment, carrying a bag of ingredients and a book full of incantations. They'd hardly gotten started, however, when the back door slammed shut.

"Dawn?" Tara called, shooting a hopeful glance to the doorway. "Is that you?"

The prodigal teen poked her head into the room, noted the box of doughnuts on the table, and allowed the rest of her body to follow.

"Dawn!" exclaimed Willow in her best maternal tone. "Where have you been? We've been beside ourselves!"

"Yeah, you look it, being all breakfast-having," Dawn answered blandly. She pulled three doughnuts from the box, holding two in her hand as she ate the third.

Tara looked sober. "Dawn, I know you're upset with Buffy, and I don't blame you. But this isn't the way to show it. W—we were really worried about you. We were just about to do a locater spell—"

"Well, now you don't have to," Dawn replied. She bit into her second doughnut.

Frown lines scored Willow's forehead. "You know, Dawn, I don't think you're really being fair here. Buffy's been through a lot recently."

"Yeah. And whose fault is that again? You sent her away."

Willow stood up so fast she tipped her chair over. "Now, you just wait a second," she began angrily. "If it wasn't for me—"

Quickly, Tara grabbed her girlfriend's sleeve, diverting her attention. "Honey, don't say anything you're going to regret."

With an admirable show of patience, Willow closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. "You're right," she said finally. Then, to Dawn: "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gotten angry. We've just been…" She opened her eyes and immediately, her voice trailed away.

Dawn was no longer there.

* * *

* * *

The heavy wooden bedroom door shut with a satisfying bang, and Dawn leaned against it sighing with relief. Without turning around or otherwise moving, she reached down and twisted the small lock on the doorknob. In a way, it was a blessing that Willow had acted like a jerk, she thought. It meant that she had an excuse to be angry, an excuse to lock her door against them, and an excuse for refusing to go to school. Because, there was no way in hell she was going to school today. She hadn't slept all night, and she had too much on her mind to worry about Algebra and American Literature.

Unzipping her jacket, she pulled from the waistband of her jeans the leather book she'd stolen from the Magic Box. Thank God, Tara and Willow hadn't noticed it. Despite the care she'd taken to conceal the book behind her jacket, there was a telltale bulge at her stomach, giving her the odd, lopsided appearance of one suffering from late-stage abdominal cancer. Of course, she needn't have worried so. Tara and Willow noticed nothing these days. No one did. At least, no one noticed anything about _her._

With a small sigh, she opened the book, flipping through the brittle yellow pages until she found the section on Spike. There was a lot there; he'd gotten down to serious business as soon as he was turned. But that wasn't what interested her. It was that first page, that intriguing newspaper article. There was a picture next to the text. It was small and blurred, dark sepia; but it was undeniably _him._ A really, really different version of him, but him just the same.

_Following the abrupt disappearance of his mistress…_

Dawn read the line again, her brow furrowed with thought. It seemed so crazy, she almost dismissed the notion altogether. What were the odds, anyway, that Buffy would be sent back in time to the exact city Spike lived in, in the exact year he was turned, and just before he was? That she would actually find him there and have a—a _relationship_ with him. Buffy hated Spike. Surely, she wouldn't…

Still, as crazy as it seemed, it was the kind of crazy that made _a lot_ of sense.

And there was only one way to find out for sure. She had to talk to Buffy.

* * *

* * *

Buffy wasn't asleep. She hadn't slept at all, having spent most of the night lying awake on her bed, worrying about Dawn. After Angel left, she'd considered going out to look for her younger sister, but that seemed a fruitless exercise. She was almost positive that she already knew where Dawn had gone, and it was the one place she refused to visit.

Spike.

Damn him.

She'd known he would come, of course. It would have been naïve to assume she could avoid a confrontation with him. But she hadn't expected it so soon, and she wasn't prepared for it. She hadn't meant to hit him; she hadn't wanted to hit him. Demon or not, he had William's face, and the last thing she wanted to do was strike him. But he just kept pushing, hurling accusations in her face. Blaming her for everything. She _had_ done wrong by not telling William the truth, but that didn't change things. Nothing had happened afterward that didn't happen before. Obviously. Spike's very existence proved that.

What right did Spike have to be angry anyway, she wondered. Even if it _was_ her fault, and she'd put William in a position for Drusilla to find, it wasn't exactly bad news for his successor. If William hadn't died, Spike would never have been able to set up shop in his corpse. So, what the hell was he complaining about? He wasn't the same man as William. He wasn't a man at all.

But, Jesus, his eyes...

_You're imagining things,_ she told herself firmly. _You're seeing the things you want to see; you're seeing William in Spike because you want to see him, not because he's there._

There was slight comfort to be taken from that line of thought, and for a moment, Buffy flirted with the idea of getting out of bed. But going downstairs meant facing Willow and Tara, and whoever else might have taken it upon themselves to show up. The very idea of conversation seemed too painful to contemplate, and it effectively squelched her desire to rise. It didn't matter if she got out of bed anyway. It wasn't like she was still enrolled in classes; she didn't have anywhere to be. She draped an arm across her face to block the morning sun from her eyes, and willed it all to be a dream. If only she could wake up to William's warm breath on the back of her neck, his soft voice mumbling that he leave her now, for the servants would be rising soon. If only—

The soft click of a door closing snapped her out of her reverie in an instant, and she sat up quickly, barking as she did so: "Can't I even get a second to myself?"

Kicking the door shut behind her, Dawn stared back at Buffy impassively. She was clutching a book to her chest, and she didn't say a word. Her abrupt appearance startled Buffy so much she didn't say anything either, and for an uncomfortable few minutes, silence prevailed.

Finally, the elder of the two sisters found her tongue.

"Where on earth have you been?" she demanded in her characteristic, overbearing way.

"Out," Dawn answered, her jaw set with a stubbornness that perfectly mirrored her sister's. "We need to talk," she continued.

"Yeah, we do," Buffy agreed. She pushed her tangled hair out of her face and glared at Dawn, adding, "We need to talk about the lack of respect you showed me last night—"

Dawn made an impatient sound, and swiftly moved away from the door and toward the bed. "Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?" she demanded. "I'm not stupid, you know. I don't need you to tell me things, but it would be nice if you did!"

"Tell you about _what_?" Buffy asked, bewildered. Dawn snorted.

"About where you were! I know where you got sent!"

Wearily, Buffy crossed her arms over her chest and prepared for battle.

"Oh, yeah?" she asked sarcastically. "And how do you know that?"

Dawn threw the book on the bed. "Go ahead," she said when her sister looked at her in confusion. "Open it. I bookmarked the right pages."

By now completely certain she didn't want to see what lay between those dog-eared pages, Buffy nonetheless picked up the book. Dawn had stuck a shoelace between the leaves, and the covers fell open and the pages turned almost of their own accord. When her eyes fell to the newspaper article that introduced Spike's section, she gasped. She barely glanced at the text before shifting her gaze back to her sister.

"Where did you get this?"

Dawn just raised her eyebrows.

"Read it," she answered. "And then try to tell me I'm wrong."

But Buffy shoved the book away from her and climbed out of bed. "Did Spike tell you about this?" she demanded. "Did he show you this?"

"He didn't say anything! I figured it out on my own. I went to the Magic Box and looked in the book to make sure. Your name isn't in it, but it wasn't that hard to put together. Spike knew what year your dress was made; he hurt himself when you came back. The newspaper talked about a mistress, and—and—" she faltered.

"What?"

"I saw that mark on your chest, Buffy. I saw it, and I know what it is. You haven't been acting right since you got back; you haven't been happy to be back. You won't take off that bracelet."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Then, tell me I'm not right."

Buffy opened her mouth. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell her, to lie, but she knew it wouldn't do any good. Before she could stop herself, something entirely different passed her lips.

"You're not going to tell the others, are you?"

Dawn's eyes softened at that.

"I won't tell them," she said quietly. "But you should."

"Well, I'm not going to." Buffy turned away from her, made a pretense of looking through her closet for something to wear. "Can you imagine what their reactions would be?"

"What about Spike?"

Buffy glanced over her shoulder, her expression hard.

"What about Spike?" she echoed.

"What did you say to him last night to make him storm off? He was freaking out—he—he was—" Dawn stopped abruptly, causing Buffy to glance at her with curiosity.

"He was what?"

Dawn looked away from her.

"Nothing."

Buffy turned back to her closet, tearing through her clothing in agitation. "I didn't say anything to him," she said finally. "He was—he just kept—acting like it was something I'd done to him."

"Well, wasn't it?"

The blue sweater Buffy was holding fell to the floor, and she didn't look up at Dawn when she knelt down to retrieve it. "You know better than that, Dawn. The person I met in London, he—he was—"

"He was _what_?" prompted Dawn, impatient with her sister's stammering. Stung by the harsh tone, Buffy snapped back:

"He was _good_! He was a good man…he was a man. Not a vampire. He wasn't Spike."

"How can you say that?" demanded Dawn. "If you'd seen the way he reacted to your coming back…Buffy, there's no way he isn't the same person."

Tightly clutching the blue sweater against her chest, Buffy gazed up at her younger sister. "Look," she began, her voice trembling with restrained anger. "The man I knew—William—he would never have chosen to become what Spike is. I don't know what happened that night with Drusilla, but I know he didn't choose for it to happen, and that it wasn't his fault. All the things Spike has done—murder and torture and God knows what else—William would never—"

"But how do you know, Buffy? Whatever left him when he was turned, it wasn't the thing that made him who he was. Maybe it just—"

"Explain Angel to me then!" Buffy burst out. "He lost his soul, and he became a completely different creature! He killed Jenny Calendar—he would have killed Giles—he tried to kill me—"

"Maybe Spike is different from him," Dawn argued obstinately. "Or, maybe Angel's lying. But I'm telling you, Buffy; Spike remembers you."

"Well, of course he does! He shares the same memories as William, because he took his brain when he took his body. He's just dumb enough to think that it means something."

"You're saying it doesn't?"

Dawn's tone was disbelieving, but Buffy met her astonished eyes coldly. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

Dawn shook her head and snorted. "Then, I guess that makes you the stupid one, Buffy."

She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Buffy watched her leave, and then slowly returned to the bed. She sank down onto it, reached for the book Dawn had left. It was still open to Spike's page. The article was of little interest to her; it focused mainly on Spike wreaking havoc in London, and she was pretty well versed in that story anyway, having heard it direct from the source. But beside the fading text, there was a picture, a small and slightly wrinkled reminder of what she had left behind.

It wasn't a very good picture. Aside from the poor quality of the image and the deterioration of the paper it was printed on, he also looked stiff and uncomfortable, if not downright unhappy. He wasn't smiling, of course; it wasn't the fashion back then. And his eyes looked a little staring. Knowing him as well as she did, Buffy realized that he was embarrassed to find himself subject to the close scrutiny of the photographer, and that he was trying to avoid taking notice of it. From the set of his shoulders, she could see he was feeling very tense.

Still, it was him.

She stroked the tip of her finger across the newsprint, caressing it as if she were caressing him. It seemed almost a sin for his face to be sharing the same piece of paper as that disgusting account of Spike's crimes. On an impulse, she ripped the page from its bindings, and then used her manicure scissors to carefully trim away the picture from the rest of the article.

"Same person my ass," she muttered, and held the photograph against her cheek.

* * *

* * *

Angel didn't make it back to LA until well after midnight, but when he walked into his suite at the Hyperion Hotel, the phone was ringing. He didn't have to think twice before knowing who it was.

And he was right.

"Angel, it's Willow."

"Yeah, I guessed," he said dryly. A slight pause on the other line told him that she was taken aback by his hostile tone, and he quickly relented. "Sorry, I'm just tired. I didn't mean to snap. What's up?"

"Well, I was calling to ask you the same thing. You just sort of took off last night, and Buffy said she didn't know where you went. I wasn't sure if you'd left Sunnydale, or, uh…"

"What else did Buffy say?" he interrupted.

"What?"

"After I left. Did you talk to her?"

"N—no. Not really. She's not…she wasn't feeling too well."

"I'll bet," he muttered.

"What was that?" Willow asked.

"Nothing."

There was a long silence then, but Angel knew she hadn't hung up, because he could hear her breathing. He clutched the receiver against his ear and waited for her to say something more. When she did, it came in the form of a question.

"I was wondering…_we_ were wondering…what Buffy said to you last night when you guys were alone on the porch. Did she tell you where she was?"

"Why don't you ask her?"

"It's…it's like I said before," she stammered. "Buffy's really not feeling all that chatty. I've tried talking to her, but it hasn't really gotten anywhere. But I thought—"

"Did Spike come back?"

"Huh?"

"After I left…last night…tonight. Did Spike come back?"

"N—no, we haven't seen him at all. I was kind of surprised to see him last night, actually. He hasn't been around lately, and I thought we'd made it clear to him…but then Dawn invited him in the other night. I was thinking of putting up the barrier spell again, but she wouldn't let me."

An involuntary growl rose in his throat. "Buffy wouldn't let you?"

"No…Dawn wouldn't let me. She's got some weird notion about him…she's friends with him."

"I see."

"There's something else," added Willow tentatively.

"What?"

"I thought…I mean…the reason I'm calling is that I…I think there's something wrong with Buffy."

"Well, she's been through a lot."

"I know, but it's more than that. She's not acting right."

"How so?"

"Well, yesterday morning, I was trying to talk to her, welcome her home and all that. When I said that, she acted angry; she said she wasn't home. Then, she just walked out."

Angel could have choked on his jealousy at hearing that. He cleared his throat twice before he could speak. "What else?" he rasped finally.

"She was dressed weird when she came home. Giles thinks we might be able to figure out what happened to her by her clothes. After she changed last night, I took the dress downstairs for him to look at, and this afternoon when I got home from class I—I found her—"

"You found her what?"

"Sitting on the floor in the living room, with the dress on her lap. She wasn't crying or anything like that. But she looked really…lost. You know what I mean? When I tried to talk to her about it, she got angry. Before she went upstairs, she threw the hall mirror against the front door and broke it. Angel, I'm starting to think that she's acting like she didn't even want to come home."

_She loved me in a way she could never love you._

The memory of Spike's words came back to him, and Angel could feel his temper rising. Jealousy overtook him so he couldn't even think, and before he could stop himself, he was snarling at Willow angrily: "And you—what? Want me to tell you what to do about it?"

"I don't know," she answered in a startled tone. "I just thought—"

"You want my advice?" he demanded. "Here it is: get her a PPD and a home pregnancy test."

And before Willow could ask what he meant, Angel banged down the phone.


	48. Chapter FortySeven

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

"Okay, home pregnancy test I know. What's a PPD?"

Xander looked around the Magic Box's reading table, clearly hoping for an explanation from one of his friends. However, they all looked as confused as he felt.

Willow had waited an admirable four days before finally telling the others about her conversation with Angel. Like any good friend, she had wanted to talk to Buffy before she mentioned it to anyone else, in order to get the story firsthand. For all Willow knew, Angel might have been mistaken. Or, maybe he was just speaking out of annoyance or concern. It was impossible to tell, and Willow certainly hadn't wanted to alarm the others until she had all the facts. The only problem was that she _couldn't_ talk to Buffy about it, because Buffy refused to talk.

Since the afternoon she smashed the hall mirror, Buffy had become even more reclusive, keeping to her room most of the day and emerging only when she knew no one else was home. She'd turned avoidance into something of an art form, and Willow hadn't caught so much as a glimpse of her for days. She kept her bedroom door locked, and refused to admit anyone who knocked on it. By now at her wit's end, Willow didn't know what else to do besides tell the others. Now, they were all just as bewildered as she was.

After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Giles suddenly stepped out of his office. He moved awkwardly, because his arms were laden with a number of antique books that threatened to slip from his grasp. Xander hurried across the room to help him.

"A PPD is a test used to determine if a person is suffering from tuberculosis," he explained as they walked to the table. He was looking at Xander, but addressing them all. His voice sounded weary.

"Okay…so Angel is saying that Buffy has TB?" Anya asked. "I thought slayers can't get sick."

"They can," answered Giles, as he dumped his books onto the tabletop. "Though it is highly unlikely, given their superior immune systems. No, I think Angel was using it as an indication of where Buffy has been, rather than an expression of genuine concern."

"We know where she's been," argued Willow. "She was sent to another dimension."

"I think not."

Giles opened one of the worn leather volumes and turned its brittle yellow pages until he found what he was looking for. Then, he shoved the book to the middle of the table so they could all see the faded picture that accompanied the text—a sepia image of an unfamiliar, dark-haired woman wearing an old-fashioned dress.

"Does this look familiar?"

Xander, Willow, and Anya looked at each other, clearly not seeing the connection. But Tara drew in her breath and spoke for the first time that evening.

"It looks like the dress Buffy was wearing when she came back."

"They are remarkably similar," Giles agreed with a nod. "This one is slightly less ornate, darker in color; but they are a very good match. And—" he stabbed his finger at the tiny line of letters below the picture "—note the caption."

All eyes fell to it, and Xander read aloud, "Margaret Sewell. May, 1880." He looked up sharply. "I don't get it. What's this got to do with Buffy?"

"The book is a chronicle of the Victorian era," the Watcher replied. "Specifically, that of London—a town plagued by disease during the latter part of the century. Typhus, influenza…and tuberculosis."

"And probably with unwanted pregnancy, as well," Tara added. "I mean, without birth control—"

"Oh, they had birth control," Anya said complacently. "There were condoms made of animal intestines. Only, they were expensive and didn't work too well. You had to tie them on with string and the smell was—"

"Okay, let's say she _was_ sent back to the past," Willow interrupted quickly. "Why would that mean she needs a pregnancy test? I mean, TB I get…she could probably catch that from anywhere during that time. But Buffy would never have—uh—she'd never—"

"You mean have sex," finished Anya. "I don't see why she wouldn't—they did do that back then, you know. It's not exactly a new concept."

"No, Willow is right," Xander hastened to say. "Buffy isn't the kind of person who'd do that…have an affair with some unwashed stranger during a time-warp."

"Unless she had to," Tara pointed out. The others looked at her in surprise, and she added even more softly, "What I mean is…what if she needed to do that in order to survive? She did end up in a strange place, in a strange time. She had no money and no means of getting any. Most women didn't really work back then, right? And the ones who did were bakers and seamstresses, or maids. Buffy wouldn't know how to do a lot of that stuff…she wouldn't know where to go…"

"Are you implying she was a _prostitute_?" Xander sounded outraged, but his girlfriend piped up:

"Well, it _is_ the world's oldest profession."

"I'm not saying she was a prostitute! It's just…suppose she did get a job as a maid. A lot of men back then would take advantage of their hired help. If Buffy didn't go along with it, she probably would have been thrown out. Without a job, a home, or references, where would she go? So, maybe she just went with it…maybe she didn't have a choice."

Xander and Willow looked stricken by the thought, but Giles' eyes were thoughtful, almost hard.

"She had a choice," he said grimly.

* * *

* * *

Buffy pressed her ear against the slick wood surface of her bedroom door and listened intently. It had become routine for her, the careful reconnaissance before she dared to venture downstairs. She wasn't avoiding her friends so much as their questions and their curious eyes, the gentle, probing way they attempted to extract information from her. And, most of all, their clumsy offers of solace. They thought she had been somewhere horrible; they thought it had scarred her. She couldn't very well tell them otherwise; yet maintaining the façade was exhausting and almost too painful to bear. It was easier not to see them at all.

Earlier, she'd overheard Tara and Willow talking about meeting the others at the Magic Box. Dawn (who, despite the recent strain on their relationship, was the only person Buffy would allow into her room) had confirmed that the two witches had left just after dinner. From the silence downstairs, Buffy assumed that Dawn must also have gone. That wasn't much of a surprise. She had been sneaking away almost every evening, forgoing the normal teenage revelries with her friends in order to visit Spike. Buffy never asked about these visits, and Dawn didn't volunteer any information; it was, they found, the easiest way to avoid having an argument.

With a sigh of relief, Buffy pulled open the door. She hadn't eaten breakfast or lunch (Willow didn't have classes and had been home all day), and hunger hastened her footsteps. At the end of the hallway, she ran into Dawn, who for some reason was crouching in the middle of the staircase. Buffy eased down the steps to stand beside her.

"Dawn, what're you…" Her voice trailed away as the low murmur of voices reached her ears. Peering between the staircase railings, she had a good view of the living room—and the people inside it.

They were standing in a circle, all five of them, their heads bent together in what seemed to Buffy to be an absurd caricature of a football huddle. All of them were whispering rapidly, and Xander was waving his hands around for emphasis. However, their voices were so low Buffy couldn't quite make out what they were saying. She looked at Dawn, who raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

"I thought they were at the Magic Box tonight." Buffy's mouth shaped the words without making a sound, but Dawn understood. She nodded, whispering, "They were. Just got back. I couldn't hear much, but I think they came back to talk to you."

At that, Buffy immediately stood up. A hushed conference and a determination to talk to her didn't bode well, and she was absolutely certain she wanted no part of what was to follow. She began backing slowly up the stairs, hoping to escape before they noticed her. However, as luck would have it, she had only gone two steps when her foot hit a loose plank, and the resulting creak sounded (to Buffy at least) almost as loud as a rifle shot. Immediately, the five in the living room turned to look at her. She froze.

"Buffy, you're…uh...out of your room," Xander stammered. He attempted a smile, but failed miserably.

Her eyes darted from one sober face to another. "What's going on?"

"We were just—we've been kind of worried about you—" Willow began. Giles shushed her with a subtle gesture of one hand.

"What Willow means," he said calmly, "is that we know you've been through a lot, Buffy. In fact, we have all done our very best to ensure your comfort and the ease of your readjustment. However—" He hesitated.

"Angel said you got knocked up," Anya interrupted when Giles' words failed him. "And we were just wondering if it's true."

Buffy gaped at them. "_What_?"

"He—he didn't exactly say that," Tara intervened quickly. "What he said was—what he told Willow—" She stopped, clearly too embarrassed to continue.

"He insinuated that it might be a possibility," Giles finished for her.

"That and tuberculosis," Anya added.

"I am not pregnant!" Buffy exclaimed, flabbergasted by the very idea. "And I _don't_ have tuberculosis."

"Buff, it's all right. Don't get upset." Xander took a step forward as if to comfort her, but his courage failed him before he even reached the bottom of the stairs.

"We're not judging," added Willow. "Whatever happened to you there, we know it wasn't your fault. We're just worried. If you need a doctor…"

"Thanks for the concern, but I'm just fine," Buffy answered. She turned to escape back to the safety of her bedroom, but Giles' voice stopped her.

"You can leave if you wish, Buffy," he said quietly. "But you cannot avoid this forever. We need to discuss it, whether you are willing to do so or not. Problems like this don't go away on their own."

"What?" Buffy asked sarcastically. "Are you saying you'll just sit here until I have no choice but to talk to you?"

"If that is what it takes, yes."

His sanctimonious tone aggravated her, and she snapped back: "You know what? That's fine. That's just great. You do that."

She pushed her way past Dawn and stormed down the stairs to the front door.

"Buffy, wait," Willow called in alarm. "Where are you going?"

The only response she got was the slam of the door.

After a moment of stunned silence, Giles cleared his throat. "I would really like to know how she came by this determination to avoid civilized discussions about her future."

"It must be something in the water around here," Dawn said snidely, and went upstairs.

* * *

* * *

She wandered the streets without any clear destination in mind. The Bronze was within easy walking distance, as were several coffeehouses and bars; but Buffy didn't want crowds or noise tonight. She didn't know what she wanted, except that she didn't want to go home.

_Angel said you got knocked up._

She kicked at the leaves that littered the sidewalk. Why would Angel say something like that? Aside from the fact that it was a horrible betrayal of confidence, it was also _not_ a betrayal of confidence. Because she hadn't confided in him. She hadn't told him anything beyond the fact that she'd been sent to 1880. She hadn't told him where she had lived or with whom—she certainly hadn't told him about William. So, where had he gotten the idea that she had slept with someone?

Unpleasant as it was, the answer to that question sprang to mind almost immediately. Spike. Who else could it be? No one else could possibly know about her time with William, and it was so like Spike to do something like that. No doubt, he'd hidden in the bushes outside her house, waiting for Angel to leave so that he could spill all the details of her relationship with William. Probably, he had gloated over it, made it into something sordid so that it would hurt his grandsire that much more. It certainly would explain why Angel had left town so abruptly.

The thought should have enraged her, sent her flying back to her weapons chest for a freshly hewn stake. Instead, it seemed that every time she tried to summon Spike's image in her brain—every time she tried to become angry—all she could picture was William.

Of course, Spike wasn't William. Buffy knew that; she knew he wasn't a man. He was a demon. He was the thing that ripped and tore, the thing that killed. He was what Drusilla had left behind when she murdered William, and he was nothing to _her_.

The sharp scent of newly cut grass reached her nostrils, and Buffy looked around in surprise. She'd been so dazed that she had walked into the cemetery without even realizing it. Or, so she told herself. Just like she told herself that this would be a prime opportunity to patrol, to release her frustrations on the unfortunate vampires who lived here. To grab whatever bit of wood was convenient and then slay them with it.

She passed a rising fledgling without paying him any mind at all.

Because, whether she was willing to admit to herself or not, the truth was that she didn't give a damn about slaying. She was going to see _him._

She just couldn't stop herself.

* * *

After four days, Spike's hands had mended considerably. True, they were still very stiff, which made it difficult to grasp things and to pick them up. But the pain was gone, and so were the abrasions. He figured that another day or so of rest and blood would set him right. The Nibblet had kept him well stocked up on the latter, and he was making it a point to drink as much as possible in order to speed up the healing process. In fact, he was well into his third glass of the evening when Buffy showed up.

He was down in the crypt's lower level when he heard her footsteps. He knew that someone was approaching long before she arrived, but he didn't think much about it. Due to the Slayer's recent absence, demonic activity in Sunnydale had increased tenfold. It wasn't unusual to hear some nasty thing taking a stroll by his window in the evenings, and while Spike wasn't exactly pleased with all the foot traffic outside his door, he'd grown accustomed to it. When his hands were better, he figured he'd thin out the herd a bit; but until then, he had little choice but to ignore it.

Still, when the footsteps drew closer, he became uneasy. He hadn't been able to repair the crypt door yet; his hands still weren't strong enough. And while he wasn't overly concerned about claim-jumpers, he wasn't looking for a fight either. The last thing he needed was to re-injure the bones of his hands just as they were healing. He grabbed the nearest weapon—a curved dagger that rested on the same battered table as his glass of blood—and headed upstairs.

When he reached the top of the ladder, he froze.

It was her.

At first, he couldn't quite believe it. Given the way their last encounter ended, he couldn't imagine she would pay him a friendly call. And it certainly wouldn't be the first time his mind played tricks on him in regards to Buffy. But she looked—

_Beautiful_

—so real.

His eyes followed her as she circled the room slowly, finally coming to a standstill near his sagging, dusty sofa. A stack of books lay beside it, and she stooped down to read the titles, most of which he knew she'd probably recognize, because his tastes hadn't changed much in the last one hundred and twenty-one years. She looked calm, but her heartbeat was thready to his ears. He could detect the scent of fresh sweat on her skin, and he knew she was nervous.

Spike eased his way through the trapdoor. She was opening one of the books now, and she didn't hear him approach. He stopped a dozen feet away from her and quietly cleared his throat.

"You should be careful." She turned around in surprise, and, holding up his blade, Spike added, "You never know what kind of villain's got a knife at your back."

The words might have sounded threatening—perhaps, in a way, he had even meant for them to. But they came out softer than he had intended and almost conversational, far calmer than he actually felt. Dropping the book, Buffy swallowed and looked down, and he had the odd sense that she would have felt more comfortable if he had screamed and cursed her.

"Your hands look better."

His eyes followed her gaze, and he turned his hands over as if he had never seen them before.

"Yeah, well. For the most part. Think I've still got some mending left to do though."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the knife slipped from his clumsy grasp and fell to the floor with a clatter. He shook his head and smiled bitterly. "Yeah…guess so."

She didn't answer, and Spike sighed heavily.

"Why are you here, Buffy?"

Buffy looked confused by the question, her forehead wrinkling slightly as she struggled to find an answer. "I just…I guess I came to…I thought that I should apologize for hitting you the other night." Her voice was barely even a whisper, and there was a false note in it. Spike realized that while she might have been sorry (and he had his doubts that she actually was), that wasn't the reason she was here.

So…why was she here?

"'s okay," he said awkwardly, after a moment of puzzled silence. "I'm not going to cast any stones over a bit of a wallop. Wouldn't be the first one between us, after all."

She nodded and looked relieved. He tilted his head at her, carefully scrutinizing her eyes as he added: "Can't say I'm inclined to be so forgiving about the rest of it, though."

"The rest of it?" She said it as softly as an echo, and he felt a curious mix of concern and anger. She was bloody well going to deny it. Again.

"The lying." He hated himself for the quiver in his voice, for the way his throat ached when he looked at her.

She met his gaze squarely, but her tone was much gentler than the last time as she said, "I didn't lie to _you_, Spike."

He could have beaten her for that. For refusing to admit who he was and what he had been to her. He _wanted_ to beat her. Chip or no chip, he wanted to hit her; but he didn't. Instead, he grabbed her upper arms in his clumsy grasp and shoved her up against the crypt wall.

"Buffy, you bloody _know_ that I—"

The words died in his throat when she touched him.

There was no threat in the way her hand rested against his chest, but though his eyes searched hers, he couldn't read her expression. His every nerve ending was suddenly shivering, and his hands dropped away from her arms. He had no idea what her game might be…if it was a game…and his astonishment kept him motionless, momentarily speechless.

The one hand slid along his chest while the other came to rest against his cheek. It was warm and soft, and there was a faint smell of lavender. Spike closed his eyes and a shaky breath escaped him. On its out rush, the single, husky word: "Buffy…"

"It's all I think about," she whispered back. "God, I can't stop thinking about it."

He felt her mouth grazing his, and he'd forgotten how gentle she could be. How smooth her skin was. His stiff hand would not flex well, but he stroked her hair anyway, the softness of it slipping through his fingers like warm water. When her lips parted to catch his own, and when the tip of her tongue dipped inside, he moaned softly. Because it had been so long, and he'd almost forgotten how good it felt.

Both hands on his shoulders now, she began to pull at his duster, trying to drag it off him. The leather was stiff and she fumbled with it; he shrugged a bit to help her get it down his arms. "Hate that," she murmured when the coat fell to the floor. "Hate it…"

Spike didn't ask her what she meant. He knew. His prized possession; he would have burned it if she had asked him to.

"…I just want to pretend for a while," she sighed, as she kicked the coat away.

Spike opened his eyes.

_She wants to…Jesus, that doesn't sound right._

He felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought. Before he could give voice to it, however, her mouth found his again, and everything else fled his mind.

Earlier, she had set the pace and pressure, and he had let her. But whatever self-control he possessed (and he didn't possess much) had left him, and suddenly he had her in a crushing grip around her shoulders, his mouth hungrily seeking hers. It wasn't rough, just frenzied, and she didn't attempt to change that. But she pushed herself off the wall, crowding him with her body so that he staggered backward, fell into the seat of the ragged armchair. She went with him, straddled his lap in a way that seemed vaguely familiar, like something from a very pleasant dream.

"Tell me you love me," she whispered around the frantic motion of their mouths. "Tell me you do…"

Love was too feeble a word to describe what he felt for her, but he had no other. He murmured it over and over, unable to stop himself once he had begun. It was awkward and fumbled, muffled by his desperate assault on her mouth. It seemed as if she had, in the span of just a few minutes, reduced him to the stammering moron he had once been. Or, at least, that he had perceived himself to be.

He couldn't even bring himself to care.

When her mouth broke from his, Spike's eyes flew open. Her own were just inches away, staring at him as if she were searching for something. Whatever she found, it made her smile slightly, and she raised one hand to stroke his hair.

The other hand fell to his belt.

He could feel her fumbling with it, sliding the leather tongue from the buckle and pulling it apart. He looked down, watched in disbelief as she unfastened the button of his jeans, then took hold of the zipper-slide and dragged it down. When she dipped her hand inside the opening and caressed him, he groaned. Muttered in a strangled tone: "Buffy, God. I—"

"Shh"—she kissed him—"You don't have to say anything."

So, he didn't.

_Bleeding Christ_, he thought as she slid down his body, dropping onto the floor at his feet. On her knees, in between his legs, lowering her head—

_She's not really going to—_

But she did. And he couldn't think at all after that.

* * *


	49. Chapter FortyEight

**Chapter Forty-Eight**

He was hard between her lips, smooth against her tongue, and salty in a slow trickle down the back of her throat. Slick and throbbing, somewhat foreign. She had never done this for William, had never held him in her mouth; she'd been taking things so slowly with him, and there hadn't been time. Yet, far beyond that first sharp edge, the taste of his flesh was the same, and she knew that if she _had _done it for William, then it would have been just like this.

Spike had just fed, and his skin was almost warm.

Buffy closed her eyes, but she could feel him shifting in his seat. His knees, flanking either side of her shoulders, were twitching. The restless fidgeting of his body against her own was a familiar feeling, and she liked it. She liked, too, the shudder of his skin beneath the caress of her hands and her mouth, the harsh panting that was the only sound in the room. She didn't stop to ask herself why he seemed to have grown breathless, when he didn't even need to breathe. She didn't care. Because, it was all so familiar…and it was so easy to pretend.

She choked a little when he came. Not because she wasn't expecting it, but because she had so little experience with these matters to begin with, and absolutely none without benefit of a condom. Once she remembered to swallow, she found the experience not a wholly unpleasant one. She liked how vulnerable it made him, the almost helpless way his boot heels dug into the dirty stone floor and his head dropped against the back of the chair, as one of his hands pressed lightly against the base of her skull. He was a vampire; even with the chip in his head, making him lose control could have led them down some very dark and violent paths. Instead, he reacted just as she'd longed for him to, just as he had reacted when she first touched him in the library a few months before.

No. It was over a century before, and this wasn't William.

When he was finished, she started to lean back on her heels and wipe her mouth. However, before she could get that far, he suddenly flung his arms around her, pulling her up from the floor and onto his lap.

"Buffy—love—I—"

His voice had a raw edge to it, and his accent sounded odd. Certainly not like William, yet not exactly like Spike, either. He was clutching at her, stroking and kissing; and this time, she didn't have to ask him to tell her he loved her. He whispered it ceaselessly, desperately, a thousand different ways. He might have called her Elizabeth.

She buried her face in his neck. His body was starting to cool now, and the throbbing vein she had once kissed in a moonlit garden was not in evidence. But his skin was just as soft as she remembered it, and it smelled just the same. Beneath the odor of leather and cigarettes, of blood and beer, he smelled just like William. Buffy breathed in that scent as she pushed her hands between their bodies, easing up the tail of his T-shirt so that she could slip her fingers beneath it. She traced the contours of his stomach with her fingertips—the smooth flesh of it made unfamiliar by hard lines of clearly defined abdominal muscle. But his reaction to her touch was the same erratic squirm—the same hoarse groan—it had always been. She raised her head to watch him, and for a moment, she thought she might cry.

With one hand splayed across his belly, making a slow crawl for his chest, Buffy lifted her other one to his head. That soft hair. Usually, Spike kept it slicked back, stiff with gel and completely devoid of its natural curl. However, his convalescence had left him weary and unconcerned with his appearance, and tonight his hair was a rumpled mess. It was shorter than William's, and bleached that ungodly shade of white-blond…but it felt so similar that it could have been him. If she closed her eyes, it could have been William.

But she didn't close her eyes, because she couldn't stop looking into his.

_I know I'm nothing special that you should care for me…_

He had that same look in his eyes now—that very same look. William's eyes in the shadows of a sleeping rose-tree: desperate and hungry, pleading with her. Hardly hopeful. How was it that Spike could so perfectly mimic that expression? Was he doing it on purpose? It didn't feel like an act, but she couldn't understand how something so wicked could look so beautiful, so soft. For a moment, she could almost believe—

"You're all I think about," he whispered now. Dilated eyes searching her own, ragged rise and fall of his chest; his voice trembling a bit as he added, "A hundred bloody years…over a hundred…with all the things I did…and you were all I could think about."

_A hundred years._

_All the things I did._

_William the Bloody strikes again._

_He earned his nickname by torturing his victims with railroad spikes._

"Oh, God."

With a small, choking cry, Buffy pushed herself off him and stood up. He stared at her in confusion, for the moment too surprised to move or speak. Still slumped in the chair, with his jeans open and his shirt pushed up, his eyes were—

_Not his eyes. Not him. And I just—_

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Spike looked bewildered. "You're sor—what?" he faltered. He climbed to his feet and started toward her, but Buffy backed away from his approach. It seemed to her that both of them were moving unnaturally slow, as if they were caught in a dream. A nightmare.

"I'm sorry," she said again, stumbling backward in the direction of the door. "I'm sorry—"

When she reached the exit, she turned and fled. She could hear him jogging behind her in clumsy pursuit, but he was fumbling with his zipper and cursing, moving too slowly to catch up. She darted across rows of headstones and shoved open the creaking iron gates at the main entrance. Her temples throbbed in rhythm to her pounding footsteps, and her throat ached with unshed tears. A single thought, cycling in her mind.

_I'm sorry, William._

* * *

* * *

He lost sight of her midway through the cemetery. God damn his hands; he should have left the fucking zipper alone. He couldn't understand what had happened. Granted, something had seemed off at first…the word "pretend"…but after that...

_After that, you saw what you wanted to see, you bloody idiot. You felt what you wanted to feel…believed what you wanted to believe. And all along, she was just using you._

But that didn't seem right either. If she were using him…would she have gone down on her knees? Seemed to him that he would have gotten more satisfaction out of that act than she would. And there was the way she kept looking at him…the expression in her eyes was something he hadn't seen in anyone for over a hundred years. It was tender, appreciative of the tenderness in him…because, he _could _be tender. He could be gentle. He could be good.

Just. Not. Now.

A vampire was making its way across the cemetery toward him. It was a young man in a suit, his white shirt streaked with fresh mud—a newly risen fledgling. He smiled at Spike, instinctively recognizing the call of his own kind. Spike felt the bones in his face shift; rage so powerful it tinted the edges of his vision red.

"You picked the wrong fucking night," he muttered to the vampire. And he started forward.

* * *

* * *

When Buffy burst through the front door of 1630 Revello Drive, Tara was sitting in the living room alone. There was a textbook in her lap and a highlighter in her hand; her legs were folded comfortably beneath her. When the heavy door banged back against the wall, she jumped, startled.

"Buffy—"

A quick dart of the eyes showed Buffy that no one else was in the room. The house was quiet and it was late. Willow and Dawn must be asleep, and the others had gone home. It was pure impulse borne out of desperation that made her say, without any preliminaries: "Send me back."

The book slid from Tara's grasp as she jumped to her feet. "Wh—what?"

"Send me back. I know that you can. You helped Willow send me there in the first place…you helped her bring me back here."

"We brought you home."

Home. Buffy felt like knocking her down. What did _she_ know about home?

"I don't want to be _home_," she spat with a venom that made Tara wince. "I want to be there. Send me back."

"Buffy, y—you know that I can't do that—"

"Yes, you can!"

"I'm not talking about the skills needed…I'm talking about…about ethics. You don't belong there. Sending you back could mess up the entire fabric of time…you could end up never existing at all."

"I don't care."

"You have to care, Buffy. It doesn't just affect you." Stern though the words were, Tara's eyes were soft and full of pity. She asked gently, "Angel was right, wasn't he? You met someone there."

Something in that tentative question broke down the last of Buffy's self-control, and a sob escaped her. "You have to let me go back," she insisted. "You have to send me—he'll die without me—"

"Buffy, he died anyway. Whether you'd gone there at all or not, he—he would have died a long time ago—"

She tried to put her arm around Buffy, but the Slayer shoved her away. "You don't get it," she said. "You don't understand. Something terrible will happen to him if I don't go back to stop it—"

"How do you know—?"

"I just know!"

She was almost shouting, but Tara didn't follow suit. She didn't say anything, and for a long moment, there was silence. Finally, she whispered gently, "I'm sorry."

Buffy said nothing.

"What—what, uh, was his name?"

"William." Her voice was husky, clogged with tears. She added a bit more clearly, "His name was William."

Tara started to say something else, something comforting. But just as she parted her lips, another voice spoke.

"You selfish little fool."

Both girls startled and turned to the door. Giles was standing just outside of the room, his face grim. Although his voice was low, his tone was harsh with anger. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

Buffy stared at him, stricken with shock. "What—?" she whispered.

He crossed the room in an instant, one fist opening to reveal a piece of crumpled newsprint—a picture. Buffy's face paled.

It was William's picture.

"Where did you get that?"

"Where did _you_ get it?" he snapped. "No—don't speak. I already know. You broke into the Magic Box and stole the book from my collection."

"I didn't steal it—"

"No? Then, explain to me how it was that I found this in your bedroom."

"You've been in my bedroom?" She was outraged. "You had no right—!"

"I had every right! You are my charge! You have been hiding the truth from all of us since your return, and I, for one, am growing weary of it. Had it not been for Angel—"

Tara was looking from one angry face to the other. "I—I don't understand—" she stammered. Giles spun on her.

"I'll tell you, then. The man Buffy just spoke of—the man to whom she wants _you _to return her—is Spike."

Stunned, Tara shifted her glance to her still-distraught friend. "You—"

"It wasn't Spike!" Buffy said shrilly. "He wasn't Spike—"

"No," retorted Giles. "He became Spike after you left. And we're damn lucky he did—"

"Lucky!"

"He has a destiny to fulfill, Buffy!" he shouted. "Perhaps it is an existence of the worst kind—the existence of a parasite. Yet, it is necessary! By altering his past, you might have altered all of ours, as well."

"Well, I didn't. Are you happy? Nothing has changed since I first left. I didn't prevent anything, and I didn't cause anything—that's how much I affected his past and yours!"

His voice dropped low again. "And yet…you wish to be sent back."

Buffy met his eyes squarely. "Yes," she said. "I do."

"You have no concern for the rest of us—for the rest of the world—apparently."

"And how would it make the world worse if I prevented Spike from killing a few thousand people?"

"Time is like a set of dominoes, Buffy…you change just one piece and the rest don't fall, or they fall in different order. Who is to say that history would be the better for it? Who is to say you would even become a slayer?"

"Well, that's the best news I've heard all day! Do you think I like being the Slayer? I didn't choose this life—it chose me. And I would trade it in for a normal one any day of the week."

"At the expense of those who need you."

She shrugged carelessly. "If I weren't around, someone else would have picked up that mantle. The world would keep spinning without me…some other poor idiot's life wrecked, because a bunch of cowardly old men in England want the war won and are too afraid to fight the battles themselves."

"May I remind you that your 'battles' have saved this world from going to hell? More than once."

"Yeah—for the rest of you. For me, this _is _hell. I'm like the Greek guy chained to the rock, having the fun of being eaten by an eagle every day. No end in sight until I'm dead."

"And you would prefer to live in a place where women are given no consideration at all? Perhaps, you feel constrained by your calling here, but I can tell you that you would feel no freer had you stayed in the past."

"How would you know? You don't know anything about it, or about what it was like for me."

"I know history. Perhaps William was kind to you and treated you well, but had you stayed, you would have become his property. Figuratively and legally. Would you have enjoyed that? Not being allowed to make your own decisions unless he gave you permission? Not being allowed out of your house alone? The only position you could maintain in society was as a wife and mother."

"It's better than this. Right now, my only option is to be a killer."

"A hero."

She shot him a withering glance—"Same difference"—and then pushed past him.

"Buffy—"

"I'm tired of talking about this," she said. "I'm going to bed."

Giles moved around to the edge of the doorway, watching as Buffy climbed the stairs. The expression in his eyes was a mixture of concern, disappointment, and anger.

"Your problems will still be here tomorrow morning, Buffy. You have a destiny as surely as Spike—as surely as the rest of us. You can't escape that just because you feel it is an unfair one."

But she didn't even glance back.

* * *

* * *

That night, she dreamed of him. Not really a dream, but a memory. A recollection made sharp and clear…like a filmstrip that played in her mind as she slept. One so precious that if she could have slept forever, she would have.

They had just left the theatre and were driving through the late afternoon sunshine, and for a while, it seemed to Buffy that they were heading back home. But shortly before they reached the house, they pulled onto a narrow, cobbled side street that Buffy had never noticed before. It ran in a wide U shape around what appeared to be a small park. They passed underneath the narrow, wrought-iron archway, and William drove into the thick stand of snowy trees just beyond it. He stopped in the middle of the pathway and twisted his head around to look at Buffy, who lowered the carriage glass so she could hear him.

"_The horses will stand. Would you like to go for a walk?"_

"_I would love to go for a walk with you," she said. And he smiled._

_They left the carriage behind and walked along a brick path almost completely blanketed in snow. There was nothing around them except skeletal trees, their bare, white-dusted branches blocking out much of the winter sunshine. The whole place seemed gray and cold, and lonely; Buffy couldn't imagine why William would have brought her here. Then, the pathway opened up before them, and suddenly Buffy found herself standing before a stone fountain surrounded by shrubbery and wrought iron benches. The fountain's spray was frozen solid and unmoving in the cold air. Buffy stopped to look at it, and William almost ran into her._

"_It's beautiful!" she whispered. But the words sounded inadequate even to her own ears. In the tangerine-tinted evening light, the icy arc was backlit, made into a prism so that a rainbow array of colors showed in its depths. She glanced over her shoulder at William, and realized with a start that he was only inches from her. _

"_It is even lovelier in the spring." His breath tickled the nape of her neck as he spoke. "Then, all of the shrubs and flowering trees are in bloom, and the fallen blossoms are drifting on top of the water. It's like a piece of art."_

_She looked around them. Silence and not a soul in sight. "It's so empty here."_

"_It always is. No one ever seems to come here. I don't see why."_

"_You come."_

"_I like it," he said. "The quiet and the separateness of it. It is a nice place to be when one wants to think."_

_Buffy turned slightly, and he was right there against her, face to face and torso to torso. She nuzzled at his temple, one hand lifting to stroke his hair. He drew a shuddering breath and closed his eyes._

"_You brought me here," she murmured into his skin. "Doesn't that make it less separate?"_

"_I don't want to be separate from you."_

_He reached out as if to hold her, but Buffy slipped away and walked closer to the fountain. Just to see if he would follow her._

_He did._

_What's that?" She pointed to a wide inscription on the fountain's side, words etched deep into the marble and surrounded by an ornate border._

_William drew up behind her, and this time, it was he who initiated the first touch, his arms sliding around her shoulders, drawing her close to his chest. She reached up to stroke his swollen knuckles, the blood that was just beginning to dry on them. _

"_It is a memorial," he said softly, in answer to her question. "A local man—he lived near us, actually—when his wife died, he had this park built in memory of her. The fountain has her name on it, and a poem."_

"_The man who built it…he never comes here?"_

"_He passed away as well, shortly after his wife. Grief, I suppose."_

"_That's so sad. No wonder no one comes."_

_He gazed over her shoulder at the fountain, shaking his head ever so slightly. "I don't think it is a sad place. It's beautiful."_

"_What is?"_

"_The idea that love can transcend death."_

* * *


	50. Chapter FortyNine

**Chapter Forty-Nine**

"I still can't believe that it was _Spike_."

Willow's voice conveyed the confusion and shock that they all felt. Though none of them could know it, Giles would have preferred to keep them in the dark about the entire situation. But Tara already knew, and he had realized that trying to keep it from the rest of them would be nothing more than an exercise in futility. Tara would feel obligated to tell Willow, who by turn would tell Xander, who would then tell Anya…best to just get it out of the way all at once. Now, two days later, they were still struggling with their bewilderment.

Tara looked thoughtful. "W—well, she wasn't really with Spike," she said. "I mean, he was human then…Buffy said that he was human. That he wasn't—"

"I just don't get it, though," Xander interjected. "She knew that he was going to become Spike. She must have known it…she must have recognized him. And she went ahead and slept with him anyway. How could she do something like that?"

But no one had an answer to that.

"When do you think they'll be back?" Willow asked eventually.

"The appointment is at ten," answered Tara. She checked her watch. "It's only a quarter 'til, now. Probably, they haven't even gotten there yet, and it will take a while once they do. I mean, especially if…"

Her voice trailed away, but all of them knew what she was thinking. Xander spoke up again, and his voice was almost defensive when he said, "Well, she's _not_. She can't be. Giles just took her as a precaution. But there's no way she's—that she could be—"

The rest of them were quick to nod, but after a moment, Anya frowned thoughtfully.

"Why?" she asked.

The others turned to face her, but it was Xander who asked, "Why what, sweetie?"

"Why couldn't she be pregnant? I mean, she did have sex with him. I think we're all pretty well in agreement there. Isn't that the usual way people get pregnant?"

"People, yes. Not Buffy."

"But she's a person."

"Anya, would you just drop it?" Xander snapped.

"She does have a point," Willow conceded softly. "What if she is? What then?"

"Well, she wouldn't keep it."

The other three looked at Anya in surprise, and she stared back in confusion. "Well, I mean, _would_ she?"

"No, probably not," Willow said, just as Xander answered in horror, "No!"

"But she loved him," Anya said. It sounded like a question, one that was echoed by all sets of eyes but one.

"She loved him," Tara whispered. Her tone was almost regretful. She hadn't told them that Buffy had asked her to be sent back to him.

* * *

* * *

"I apologize."

Buffy turned as far as her seatbelt would allow and looked at Giles. He was staring at the road ahead, his hands positioned at ten and two, no expression at all on his face. When he had arrived at the house that morning, bent on taking her to the doctor for tests, she hadn't resisted him. She was too tired to resist, too tired even to care. She hadn't said a word to him since they left the house. Not until she asked him, "Apologize for what?"

"I know that I was too hard on you last night," he told her in a tight voice. "Perhaps, in a way, I was even unfair. But you must understand how much of a shock it was, Buffy. How much of a disappointment. To know that you would endanger not only your own existence, but also everyone else's…everyone in the world's. And for nothing more than a fling with a man who you hardly even knew."

"I knew him." Buffy's voice trembled. "I knew him better than anyone I ever…and it wasn't a fling."

He didn't argue with her, but she could see the corners of his mouth turn down in displeasure. Still, his voice was measured when he asked her, "Did you recognize him immediately? I realize he looked quite…different…but you did realize who he was."

"Yes, I did."

"And you pursued him anyway."

"How was I supposed to know that I would even come home?" she flared. "I was there for five months, for God's sake! I didn't have any way to contact you. For all I knew, Willow had screwed up so badly, she couldn't get me back! Did you think I could just sit on my hands and _not_ form attachments to people who were good to me?"

For the first time, he looked at her. The blank look was gone from his face, and he looked, instead, curious, almost pitying. "People who were good to you. Was he good to you? What did he do?"

Part of her didn't want to tell him. But she hadn't talked to anyone about it, no one at all except during her one brief conversation with Tara. And she wanted Giles to understand, to see that she wasn't trying to hurt anyone, that none of it had been planned, and that Spike had nothing at all to do with it.

"How I met him…" she began slowly. It was hard to get the words out at first, and she hesitated. Giles prompted her gently.

"I was wondering about that. Odd coincidence."

_Coincidence?_ she wondered dazedly. _Is that what it was?_

"Did you meet him right off?" Giles asked.

Buffy shook her head.

"When I got there, I was taken in by the police. Because of the way I was dressed, you know. One of the cops was nice, and he sent me to a job house so that I wouldn't have to go out on the streets and starve. I was there for a few weeks, and then he—William—saw me. Crossing the street. I walked in front of his horses and nearly got ploughed over. I didn't see him, but he…"

"He what?"

"I was crying." Buffy's voice had grown soft and faraway. When Giles looked at her, he saw that her eyes were the same, staring out the windshield glass, glazed and distant. She murmured, "He said I was crying. His mother needed a nurse anyway, and he thought I looked lost, like I needed help. He wanted to help me."

"My God," Giles said.

She snapped out of her stupor in an instant, and looked over at him.

"What?"

"He saw you crossing the road and immediately decided that you would make a good nurse for his consumptive mother? Does that sound even remotely plausible to you?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that he saw a pretty girl who had no means of supporting herself, and he decided to take her in for his own base purposes. My God, Buffy. How could you be so gullible? How long did it take you to let him…?"

"You don't even know what you're talking about!" Buffy's voice was rising. "You don't know him. You have no idea—"

"I know Spike," Giles retorted. "And I damn well know that he would do anything in his power to have you. I shouldn't be surprised to learn that he was no different a century ago."

"Jesus," Buffy exclaimed. "Are you deaf? I've already told you a hundred times. _He wasn't Spike_. I was sent to 1879, and William was human. It wasn't until afterward…after I left...that Drusilla…"

She looked at Giles accusingly.

"William wasn't anything like Spike. You _know_ that he couldn't be like Spike. Vampires are just demons who take over a body when the soul is gone. They don't have anything to do with the people that were there before."

There was a pause. Almost infinitesimal, but it made the hackles on Buffy's neck rise. Her eyes slid around to the windshield again, and she barely heard Giles' voice as he said, very softly, "You're right, Buffy. They don't."

* * *

* * *

"I know what happened between you and Buffy."

Spike twisted around in his chair, looking for the source of the words. He might have felt shocked by the intrusion, but he'd drunk the better part of a bottle of Maker's Mark, and it was hard to feel anything at that point. When he saw Dawn standing just inside the open door of the crypt, he gave a sardonic smile.

"Huh, you. Should've known."

Taking this for the invitation he probably meant it to be, Dawn dumped her book bag on the floor and walked into the room. "I just thought you should know," she added, as she perched on the edge of the sarcophagus.

Spike drained the bottle and threw it aside. "Yeah. What'd big sis do? Run right home and tell you? I'd have thought the details a little too NC-17 for—"

"She didn't say anything," Dawn interrupted. "I found out on my own. It was kind of obvious when you think about it. And there was a book…in the Magic Box."

"A book?" he echoed in disgust. A nanosecond later, he realized what she was saying. Dawn was telling him that she knew about Buffy's sojourn to London, not that she'd found out about Buffy's visit to his crypt the night before. Relieved, he began fishing through the pile of bottles beside his chair, searching for one that hadn't yet been emptied.

"The book…it was about you, and it mentioned something about…about a woman."

"And you guessed that it was Buffy," he finished for her.

"Well, wasn't it? Isn't it?"

Spike unscrewed the cap from a flask of Jack Daniels and put the bottle to his lips. After a long drink, he said, almost to himself, "Yeah…it's always been Buffy."

Dawn didn't answer, but he could feel her eyes on him, scrutinizing. Annoyed, he snapped, "Don't you have school or something?"

"It's a free day," she answered. Spike sighed. She was intractable. Just like her bloody sister.

"That being the case, what's with the…?" He pointed the mouth of his bottle in the direction of her book bag.

"Well, there was a field trip thing; I was supposed to go."

"Yet, here you stand."

Dawn shrugged. "Who cares about Indian mounds? If I ever decide I do, I can go see them. It's not like the bodies are going to get up and walk away—"

She stopped abruptly, having just realized what she was saying. Their eyes met, and Spike snorted.

"Yeah…'cause we both know the dead don't walk, right?"

There was a long pause until Dawn, finally screwing up her courage enough to do it, told him, "I saw your picture."

"Oh, yeah?" He tipped his bottle, drank deep. "What picture is that?"

"The picture of you as a human. It was in the book. A newspaper article. 'William the Bloody Strikes Again' and all that. Only the person who wrote the article…he thought that you were still a human, a serial killer. I guess they didn't know yet…"

_William the Bloody Strikes Again. _

Jesus Christ.

Spike closed his eyes, and he could almost feel Angelus' body crowding him into the cool, stout plaster of the wall. Through the muffled buzz of alcohol in his head, he could hear the angry snarl: _See that? Do you see that? You lying little bastard—_

Dawn's voice broke into his thoughts.

"I thought about keeping it to myself," she said. "But when Buffy saw it…I mean, when I gave it to her…she kind of…freaked."

He opened his eyes.

"You showed it to Buffy?"

"Well…yeah."

"What did she do?" he demanded. His urgent tone startled her, and Dawn widened her eyes.

"Nothing—"

"_Nothing_?"

"She didn't do anything. Not while I was there. I mean, obviously, not while I was there. She wouldn't even look at the book. But…"

"What?" he asked impatiently.

"There was this big ruckus last night. I was in my room, and I could hear Buffy come home because she slammed the door so hard she nearly cracked the plaster. So, I went to listen—"

"Eavesdrop," he corrected. She looked defensive.

"It's not like I'm the only one who ever does it!"

"Never mind, Bit. Go on."

"When I got to the top of the stairs, Buffy was going kind of nuts, telling Tara that he was going to die without her, that something terrible was going to happen to—"

She stopped abruptly, as if just realizing something.

"You."

"Me," he answered grimly. "Now, are you going to tell me the rest of it, or am I going to have to break this goddamn bottle across your skull?"

She tossed her head at the last.

"Please. As long as you have that chip in your head, I can so kick your butt. Anyway, like I said, Buffy was in the living room with Tara. She wanted Tara to send her back...she said that something terrible was going to happen to him if she didn't go back to stop it. Tara asked his—your—name. And then…Giles showed up."

"The Watcher knows?"

Dawn nodded, and Spike groaned.

"Bleeding hell. What happened after that?"

"Nothing, really. Except that Giles found out Buffy had cut your picture out of that book—I think that hacked him off almost as much as the other. He accused her of not doing her duties as a slayer; she said she didn't want to be a slayer. Then, he and Buffy starting fighting, and she ended up storming upstairs to her bedroom. Big surprise there."

He smiled humorlessly. "Been doing that a lot lately, has she?"

"Pretty much. She stormed out of the house last night and was gone a couple of hours. When she got back, after the thing with Tara and Giles I just told you about, she stormed upstairs. She didn't come out until this morning when Giles came."

Spike snorted.

"Yeah? And what did the big librarian want this time?"

"To take her to the doctor."

Immediately, Spike's expression changed. He sat up a little straighter.

"Not hurt is she? Not sick?"

"No…"

Relieved, he raised his bottle to his lips.

"Good."

"…Giles thinks she might be pregnant."

Spike choked, spitting out the liquor he'd just swallowed. When he finally stopped coughing, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and stared at her.

"He _what_?"

His shock made Dawn's heart jump into her throat. Her own eyes widened, and she yelped: "It's not the _truth_ is it?"

Spike dropped his head down, resting his forehead against the palm of his free hand. His shoulders were trembling, and he was making an odd, guttural sound; for a moment, she was almost frightened. Then, finally, he looked back up at her.

He was laughing.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" he said.

She had absolutely no idea what to make of that.

"So, then, it's _not_ true?"

Spike wasn't sure if it was the liquor or merely the absurdity of his situation, but suddenly he couldn't stop laughing. Hoarse, hysterical laughter. He shook his head at Dawn.

"Well, how can you be so sure?" she persisted. Clearly, she was torn between disbelief and a desire to believe. When he didn't answer right away, she jumped off the sarcophagus and made her way over to him. She shook his shoulder as if to bring him out of a stupor. "How do you know—?"

Like a switch being flipped, the laughter suddenly died. He threw the liquor bottle at the sarcophagus, and Dawn winced as it shattered. He turned to her with a snarl.

"Who the fuck do you think would know better?"

"Spike…"

"Do you think that it never occurred to me?" he blazed. "I had her with me five months—I had her three times—I _had_ her. Of course, I bloody thought about it!"

_Dreamed about it…_

Dumb with shock until now, Dawn slowly shook her head. "Then, how do you know she isn't? Are you really sure…?"

The worst of his anger gone, Spike looked momentarily stricken. She tried to put a comforting hand on his arm, but he swatted it away as if it were a bothersome fly.

"Of course, I'm sure. Jesus, I'm a vampire aren't I?" He was weary now.

"Why does that have anything to do with it?" she asked, bewildered.

"Increased hearing, taste, sense of smell…all part of the package, pet. I can hear your little heart beating right this minute; I can smell the blood in your veins. And Bit, I know your bloody sister. I've been memorizing her for the past five years. Shouldn't come as much of a surprise, yeah? If she were harboring a stowaway, I'd know it. Not far enough along to hear another heartbeat, but her blood would smell different. Hormones."

His words were bitter.

Dawn sank onto the arm of the chair, almost catching his elbow, which he quickly pulled out of the way. For an instant, she was able to enjoy some relief. Then, something else occurred to her, and she frowned.

"Uh, Spike…"

"What?" His tone was sullen.

"You seem like you know a lot about it."

"About what?"

"Pregnancy."

"So?"

"So…how…where did you learn all that stuff? Blood and hormones and heartbeats. You haven't ever…"

"Haven't ever _what_?"

Something in his tone frightened her, and she quickly shook her head. "Never mind."

But he had already guessed what she was going to say.

"What? You're asking if I've ever noshed on a pregnant woman?" His voice was a notch higher than usual, and much louder.

"Well—" She hesitated, uncertain of how to go on. His eyes narrowed.

"Get out, Bit. Just get the fuck out, all right?"

Dawn slid off the arm of the chair, immediately looking contrite. "Spike, I didn't mean—I wasn't trying to accuse you of—"

"Would you GO?"

She did.

Afterward, he vented his feelings by kicking over the makeshift crate that served as his coffee table, shattering several more empty bottles in the process.

"God damn it all. Nobody ever has any bloody faith in me."

And then, with a start, he wondered why he thought he deserved it.

* * *


	51. Chapter Fifty

**Chapter Fifty**

_One hand was on his cheek, her thumb skimming lightly over the bruises and the swollen places, gently wiping at the streaks of blood. His eyes were closed, his full bottom lip trembling, and even though a part of her was thinking, "This isn't the way it happened," she couldn't quite stop herself. She leaned up and kissed him. _

"Tell me what happened," she whispered as her mouth grazed across his. "It was Archer, wasn't it?"

"He would not have dared if Havisham had not been there; Charles was there to meet him off the train. It was a cowardly thing."

His voice was husky, his battered face beautiful in the strangest way. She wanted to kiss him again; she wanted to unbutton his wrinkled shirt and touch his warm, soft skin. She wanted to make love with him right there on the foyer rug.

Instead, she whispered, "Come into the parlor and we'll fix you up."

He did, and sat in an armchair while she lowered herself onto the ottoman at his feet. And although the handkerchief full of ice was suddenly in her hand, she had no idea how it had gotten there. Somehow, it didn't matter. His head was bowed. She stroked his chest with her free hand, rested it on his thumping heart so that he suddenly looked up. The ice was still cold and dripping on her palm, but she didn't even need it now, because his face was no longer bruised.

He looked at her with eyes the color of topaz, and in a voice slightly slurred by his descending fangs, he whispered hoarsely, "I should kill him."

* * *

* * *

Buffy woke with a start, her heart pounding in her throat and one fist gripping at the bed sheet.

_It was just a dream._

She swallowed and sat up slowly, reaching to switch on the small lamp on the nightstand beside her bed. She had returned to her room once Giles dropped her off after her doctor's appointment. That had been just after noon, and she must have fallen asleep, because it was dark outside now. A quick glance at her clock radio told her that it was just after seven o'clock.

Her heartbeat was beginning to slow now, but a certain sense of unease remained: the odd feeling that it was not just a dream. That she had stepped inside something real, something separate from the memory of what had actually happened that night with William.

_Just because I'm the slayer, it doesn't mean my dreams always have a deeper meaning,_ she told herself stubbornly. _Giles once said—_

But Giles had been wrong then. And this morning, in the car, he had seemed as if he were—

_He wasn't lying. Giles wouldn't do that._

Even as she tried to convince herself, a part of her knew that it wasn't true. Because Giles _did_ lie. He'd lied to her many times, although he always justified it later on as being "for her own good." Did he consider it for her own good now? Was he trying to protect her from something disturbing? Like maybe that she was spending every night killing beings that, if not exactly human, had retained some spark of humanity in them?

His hesitation had been so very brief; perhaps she had only imagined it.

But then there was the dream. Aside from the demon face, he had still been William in the dream. His hair and his heartbeat—his soft voice—they were all William's. And all hers. Every inch of him belonged to her.

What if it did mean something?

Acting on a sudden impulse, she dove off her bed and onto the floor. The amount of clutter that had accumulated in her bedroom since she arrived home was amazing, and it took her a few minutes to locate what she was looking for. Giles had found her picture of William; he had found the book Dawn had stolen from the Magic Box. But he hadn't found the page she had torn out of it. It had been of little consequence to her at the time; she hadn't wanted to read grisly accounts of Spike's murderous rampage through London. After clipping the picture from it, she had carelessly tossed it aside. Now, she found herself crawling beneath her bed, groping through dirty clothes and dust bunnies until finally her fingers closed over the thick, wrinkled paper. She sat on the floor, leaning against the side of the bed as she read it. Her breath hitched a little as the sentences jumped out at her.

_The body of David Havisham was discovered—torture by railway spike—Mr. Charles Archer's body was found in a similar manner—following the abrupt disappearance of his mistress—William the Bloody—_

And, abruptly, her dream came back to her, hopelessly tangled with the memory that had inspired it.

_"It was them. Charles and David Havisham—" _

"I should kill him—" 

_No,_ Buffy's mind insisted. _Spike killed them because—because they were convenient. They were William's acquaintances; he would have come across them when he traveled around London. It had nothing to do with me—_

But what about Spike's eyes? Those blue eyes watching her dazedly, worshipfully, as he drew her up onto his lap. Half-closed as he murmured in a voice that was almost desperate, telling her that he loved her.

_God, those were his eyes—and the way he moved against me—the way he spoke—it was almost exactly like—_

What if it was? Jesus, what if it was him? How could he have done those things? How could he have hurt Anne, when all his life, he had done everything in his power to protect her?

Moreover, how could she even begin to find out the truth?

In a daze, she found herself standing up and slowly walking to the door. Although the hallway was dark, there was a dim light at the foot of the stairs, and she could hear voices coming from the living room. When she reached the foyer, Buffy could see them in there, standing in a small cluster near the sofa. They must have only just arrived: Xander and Anya still had their coats on, and Giles' car keys were in his hand. Xander was speaking in a hushed whisper when Buffy reached the doorway.

"So, you're saying that the results were…?"

"As negative as her attitude," answered Giles. He sighed. "Although the doctor did say that, early as it is, the HCG might not be accurate; he advised Buffy to return if her—if she—well, if _it_ did not arrive on time."

"But they think it's all right?" Willow pressed. "I mean, of course there's a chance that she might be. But they think—"

"They believe it is quite unlikely," Giles said. "The PPD results will take longer…up to seventy-two hours. However, a positive result of that seems highly unlikely as well."

"We—well, it was the pregnancy test we were most concerned about, right?" Tara asked.

"I think—" began Giles. But before he could tell them what he thought, Buffy suddenly cleared her throat, and suddenly all eyes turned to the doorway.

She was staring at them impassively, as if politely waiting for her turn to speak. Her shoulder bag and coat were hooked over one arm.

"I'm going to LA," she said calmly. "I just thought you should know."

* * *

* * *

They tried to stop her, of course, as they always tried to stop her from doing anything that wasn't their idea. She had expected as much, and she was prepared for it; oddly numb to all their threats and entreaties. Not even Dawn's arrival, midway through the tirade, would dissuade her.

She walked to the bus station, but before she bought her ticket, she used some spare change to call Angel. The payphone receiver smelled like moldy cheese; she tried not to breathe in too heavily. He answered on the fourth ring.

"I need to talk to you," she said. No preliminaries. He was momentarily silent, maybe from surprise at hearing her voice. Or, maybe because he thought that she was going to berate him for outing her to Giles and her friends. At any rate, once his answer came, it was characteristically careful.

"Buffy, things are a little crazy here. I really don't think I can leave just now—"

"You don't have to leave; I'm coming to you. Today. Right now. I'm at the bus station."

"It's that important?" He sounded stunned. "Can't you just talk to me over the phone?"

"No, I really can't." She paused. Then, "I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that you'll be home tomorrow morning. After sunrise and all that. You've never really seemed like one to run around with a blanket on your head."

"What?"

"Never mind. So, you'll be home?"

He cleared his throat. For a moment, she wondered if he was trying to come up with some excuse as to why he wouldn't be.

"You're coming on the bus?" he asked eventually.

"Yes."

"It will still be dark, but I'm not going anywhere tonight anyway. I'll wait for you."

In spite of her sudden suspicion toward him, Buffy couldn't help but feel warmed by that. When she thanked him, it was in a friendlier tone.

Before they said goodbye, he asked her hesitantly, in a voice that said he already knew the answer: "Buffy…this is about Spike, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said briefly. "It is."

* * *

* * *

Angel had offered to pick her up from the bus station in Los Angeles, but Buffy refused. She knew him well enough to know that he would start badgering her to talk the moment they got into the car, and for some reason, she couldn't bear the thought of it. Maybe it was because, in a car, she would be trapped to hear the things she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to hear. In his apartment, she would be free to leave at any time. She asked him to give her directions instead, and she called a taxi.

When she reached his suite at the Hyperion Hotel, he opened the door before she even had time to knock.

"Wow," she said. "Good timing."

He smiled slightly as he stepped aside to let her in the door.

"Not really," he said. "Just vamp hearing."

The first few minutes after she entered were painfully awkward. He offered her something to drink. Of course, he didn't really drink anything but blood these days, he said. But after he hung up the phone earlier, he had run to the corner market, bought some soda and juice in case she arrived thirsty. If she would like a glass—

Buffy shook her head.

"Thanks anyway, but I really think that I'd rather just get down to the talking."

He nodded uneasily. And, although he motioned to the sofa and chairs on the other side of the room, neither of them sat down.

"Did you lie to me, Angel?"

Buffy didn't mean to put it so baldly, but there was no use in beating around the bush, and she had to know. He winced slightly.

"Did I lie to you about…?"

"You know what about. About the soul. About your being a different person without it. Did you lie?"

Angel sighed heavily; he looked like a man ascending the steps of a gallows. But his dark eyes met hers steadily when he said, "Yes, I did."

She could have hit him for that; she could have felt rage. But she didn't. Instead, there was sadness, disappointment, and the dimmest, slightest spark of something that might have been hope.

But there was also a sense of betrayal, and for the moment, it was the strongest of all. She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes, and her voice quivered when she stammered almost incoherently, "How could you do that? It was you all the time…four years ago when you lost it…and you killed…"

"Jenny Calendar," Angel finished quietly. "And I tried to kill Giles; I tortured him. I tried to kill you. Buffy...if I weren't in some way responsible for those things…didn't you ever wonder why I felt guilty for them afterward?"

Yes, she had. But it was one of the many things she had pushed aside, hidden away in that dark compartment of her brain where she didn't have to think about it. Now, she had forced open that door; she had let out the horrors within.

"It was you all along." She couldn't say anything else, but she could tell from his change in expression that her eyes must be accusing, or angry. His voice became almost desperate.

"Yes, it was. And, Buffy, I won't try to pretend otherwise, but just…let me try to explain."

"So, explain," she answered.

"When I was turned, something left me…the soul or the conscience, whatever you want to call it…and something else came to take over. I was me, but only in part—"

"What part?" she interrupted. He looked at her with a mixture of regret and bitter amusement.

"The part that hated. The part that remembered all the bad things that had ever been done to me and all the bad people who had done them."

_I should call him out for his ungentlemanly behavior. To insult a lady, to accuse her of such terrible, vulgar things; it is unlawful. I should kill him—_

The memory of William's words came back to her, more powerful than any dream. She felt almost sickened by the recollection. The part that had hated. Yet, at the same time, it wasn't just hate was it? Not that night. Not when William had threatened to—

"What about the part that loved?" she demanded. "What about that? Did it leave?"

Angel turned his face to the wall then, and punched it with his fists so that chunks of plaster gave way and crumbled onto the floor. "Damn it, Buffy. I don't know! It was all so tangled back then. There was something in my head…something that wanted not just the blood, but the violence as well. I'm not going to blame Darla, but she encouraged me in it. And I wanted to please her. I lo—"

He stopped.

"You loved Darla," Buffy finished softly. Now, she was crying. "Then, you could love. You could—"

"Yes, I loved her," he spat. "But I also loved the kill! I loved the ability to control life and death, the power to make people beg for both. That _thing_ inside me—the more brutal I became, the better it made me feel. And whatever it is that makes a person lie awake at night and regret hurting others…that part of me was gone."

"And when you got your soul back?"

"Then, the guilt I should have felt all along suddenly came back to me. But that thing—the demon, the evil part—it's still in there. It's still sleeping and waiting. Sometimes, it surfaces; but with the soul, it's too weak to do anything."

Buffy wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Why her?"

He looked over his shoulder at her, clearly confused.

"Why who?"

"Darla. Why could you love her when you didn't have a soul…and you couldn't love me?"

Buffy didn't think she had ever seen Angel look so ashamed before. He ducked his head, rested his forehead against the wall, and choked out his answer so quietly that she had to draw closer in order to hear him.

"You were the only love I ever had that was pure, Buffy. When the soul left…when the demon took over…the memory of that love threatened it."

"And it wanted to kill me."

"And it wanted to kill you," he said.

Suddenly, Buffy wasn't sure she wanted to go any further. It was too confusing, too painful. The things Angel was telling her seemed almost contradictory, but at the same time, they made almost too much sense. Part of her wanted to run out of the apartment; part of her wished she had never come.

But the part of her that had compelled her to come—the part that had made William hers—wouldn't let her give up so easily. Because, that part of her was not a coward. She forced the question out.

"If you had wanted to…could you have subdued it? The demon? Could you have pushed it aside and not done all those things you wanted to do? Even if they felt good…even if there wasn't any guilt afterward…could you have stopped?"

Angel spun to face her then. He grabbed her by her shoulders and turned her so that her back was now against the wall. His face leaned into hers, his dark eyes searching and frantic.

"Buffy, don't do it. Don't even think about it—"

"What?" she asked baffled. Although his grip on her shoulders bordered on painful, it never even occurred to her to push him away.

"Maybe it was wrong of me to lie to you. But damn it, I wouldn't have told you the truth even now, if I didn't know what you were considering, how confused you are and what you might do because of it. Whatever you had with him—whatever happened with William in 1880—Spike isn't that man now."

"You said he's the same person," she argued, and shoved him away. "You said that you are."

"I said that part of me remained behind. For God's sake, Buffy, you saw me without the soul; you saw all the things I was capable of doing. All the things I was capable of enjoying while I was doing them. Do you think Spike is any different? Willow told me about that chip in his head. But do you think he would be any good without it to hold him back? I guarantee you, he would go right back to his old ways. He's a killer, Buffy. So am I—but at least I can feel sorry for it now. He can't, and he doesn't."

Buffy nodded slowly, acknowledging everything he had said. Even agreeing with it. Still, that single small part of her mind whispered insistently: _But he's still mine. Whatever part of him that's still William belongs to me. I can have him if I want him._

If she wanted him…

* * *


	52. Chapter FiftyOne

**Chapter Fifty-One**

_Jesus, I must be one world-class prat to be doing this._

Spike sighed as he crossed the Summers' lawn. He'd tried to keep his distance since their last encounter because there was still the dimmest hope that she actually might come to him. He wanted to wait until she came to him. Of course, she didn't come, and he was too impatient to wait any longer.

Even as he climbed the front steps, a part of Spike despised himself for doing it. Crawling back to her like a kicked dog, exposing his underbelly so that she could rip it apart yet again. Bleeding stupid was what it was, and he knew that. But he couldn't stay away. She was a sickness in his veins; she was an addiction. He couldn't help himself. He had to have her.

And she loved him.

Granted, it was getting harder to tell himself that after all that had happened between them. In fact, he'd spent the greater part of the afternoon telling himself just the opposite. Yet, deep down, there was the stubborn part of him that insisted she did—that she must—because she wouldn't have come to him otherwise. She wouldn't have gone down on her knees.

He could have walked right into her house, of course. Bit had given him the invitation he needed, but Spike was determined not to fuck up things this time. If Buffy wanted him to be bloody William—that weak, worthless personality he had worked for over a century to shed—then he would do it. He knocked on the door and waited impatiently for it to open.

It was Dawn who opened the door, and she didn't seem surprised to see him. However, there was something else in her expression, something much worse than surprise, or even displeasure. She looked almost—

_Frightened?_

He felt a surge of guilt over his behavior that morning. He shouldn't have gotten so angry; he shouldn't have taken it out on the Bit. Now, he awkwardly tried to apologize for it. "Look, Dawn, I know I was an arse earlier. The shouting and all. It was plain bad timing; you showing up like that when I was pissed as all buggery."

"It's all right," she said quickly. Her voice was unnaturally low, and she glanced over her shoulder in an uneasy manner. Still, she reassured him: "I'm not angry, Spike. I never was. I—I mean, I shouldn't have asked you that—"

"It's fine," he cut in. "Let's forget about the whole thing, yeah?" He cleared his throat, and when she appeared to have no answer for him, continued, "I'm, uh, here to see Big Sis, anyway. Got some things to clear up with her. Some things to say. Is she about?"

Dawn shifted her weight to her other foot, and the uneasy look increased tenfold. "Well, not exactly. She—"

Abruptly, she stopped, and it took Spike a moment to realize why. Giles had come up behind her.

"Buffy is not here," he told Spike. "And, that being the case, I think perhaps you should leave as well."

He started to close the door, but Spike quickly shoved his boot between the jam and the edge of the door. He met the Watcher's stare with a steadiness that belied his sudden anxiety. Still, he forged ahead. "Not so fast, mate. First, I'd like to know where the fuck she's at."

Giles left eyebrow arched in a mild show of scorn, and as quiet as his answer was, it was also painfully caustic.

"Buffy is in Los Angeles," he said bluntly. "She's with Angel."

Having spoken thus, Giles used his own foot to push Spike's back from the doorway. Spike hardly noticed it. He was trying to wrap his mind around it, the idea that Buffy could have spent a night with him, given him something that spoke, to him, of love…and then gone off to see Angel. It made no sense, and it wasn't until he heard the click of the door closing that he finally snapped out of his daze. Slowly, he made his way back down the steps.

_One world-class prat,_ he thought bitterly.

* * *

* * *

When Buffy left the bus station the following afternoon, she felt exhausted and more than a little travel-stained. When she looked down at her wrinkled clothes and noticed her limp hair in the reflection of the bus window, she almost wished she had accepted Angel's offer to let her use the shower in his apartment. However, that would have been awkward on just about every level imaginable. Anyway, she hadn't brought clean clothes to put on afterward. So, what was the point?

Spike was the point.

_Stop it_, she told herself angrily as she stepped out onto the street. _You are_ not _going to go running to him. You haven't even thought this through properly—all the things Angel told you. You'd be an idiot to even consider—_

_Then, I'm an idiot...and I can't stop myself from being one._

With that thought in mind, she began the long walk to the cemetery.

* * *

* * *

Spike was drunk. Stupidly, gloriously, and utterly drunk.

Of course, drinking wasn't exactly unusual for him; nor was being drunk. However, for the past eighteen hours, he hadn't been sober at all. He had drunk from the moment he left the Summers' home the night before to the time he passed out just before dawn. When he woke up a few hours later, he immediately reached for his bottle.

By the afternoon, he was so out of his wits he didn't even realize he had an intruder until it was too late to do anything about it. He had made a clumsy job of repairing the door, and although it now shut tightly, it screeched horribly on its bent hinges. Still, he didn't hear it open; nor did he hear the muffled footsteps above or the soft creak of the wooden rungs as someone descended the ladder. He was lying on his bed (a castoff of someone's castoff), and he didn't notice anything at all.

And then…there she was.

At first, he almost thought she was a mirage. It was the knowledge that she had run off to see Angel that accounted for his drinking binge, of course. The very idea that she would do that…that she would go to bloody _Angel_ of all people. When he heard that, he almost believed that he could hate her.

Almost.

Now, after agonizing over it for so long, he couldn't quite reconcile himself to the fact that she was actually standing there. That, after days of wanting her, she was suddenly just a few dozen feet away. Spike stood up on legs made weak and unsteady by too much alcohol. He started to approach her, but he immediately thought the better of that. He'd be damned if he would throw his pride at her feet yet again.

Instead, he veered off to the right, parked himself on the rickety table where he kept his candles. Let her make the first move for once, he thought.

Although he had told himself he would not, he couldn't stop watching her as she moved closer. She looked sad and tired, a bit thinner than usual, as if she had not been eating well. But beautiful. So bloody beautiful in the candlelight, her hair loose around her shoulders, her ginger-colored sweater and black jeans following every sleek line of her body. A sharp dart of jealousy went through him at the thought that perhaps she had worn those pretty clothes for Angel's benefit. He could smell the other vampire on her, and suddenly, he felt angry to the core. The thought that another man—and goddamned Angel, no less—should have been so close to her when she belonged to _him_.

By the time she finally reached him, Spike was having a hard time controlling his temper.

"You know, you're behaving like a whore."

Whatever she had expected him to say, it certainly wasn't that. He heard her suck in her breath, and her words were hardly more than a hoarse whisper when she said, "W—what?"

The combination of alcohol and jealousy had made him malicious, and although the words sickened him even as he said them, he couldn't seem to stop. "Running off to Angel like that. Does he still have a soul, Slayer, or did he cash it in to tonk with you?"

She said nothing, which he took as an indication that something—perhaps not sex, but _something_—had taken place in Los Angeles. He added even more hatefully, "I've got to say, you're a right bitch in heat, you are. When you consider that you once swore undying love to me. It might've been a century from my end, but it was less than two fucking weeks ago for you. Your loyalty astounds me, Slayer."

Buffy blanched under the assault, but she seemed too stunned and hurt to fight back. The ensuing silence was almost unbearable for him, and he suddenly lunged at her, grabbing her shoulders and spinning her around until he'd slammed her back against the tunnel wall. If the chip fired, he didn't feel it; but perhaps, it did not. His intent wasn't to hurt her; just to hold her down and prevent what he was certain would be her imminent retreat. His face just inches from hers, he snarled, "Goddamn you. You had no sodding right—"

Finding her tongue at last, Buffy bit back at him: "No _right_? I don't belong to you, Spike! And I can go to Angel—or anyone else—if I want to. My God, what do you think happened there? Do you honestly believe that I would just show up at his door and—"

"You showed up at mine," he pointed out snidely.

"Well, even if we did, it's none of your business!"

Her voice had a hysterical note that he mistook for scorn. It made him more vicious, and he said in a mocking tone, "So, I hear we're expecting, love. When's it due?"

Buffy shoved him away from her so hard that he stumbled backward and fell to the floor, almost taking several pieces of furniture with him. When he looked up at her, he could see that her bottom lip was quivering. There were tears in her eyes, and the sight of them cut into him like a blade across the heart.

"I should have known," she said shakily. "I should have realized that Angel was right: whatever part of _him_ that's left in you can't possibly overcome the monster Drusilla made you into."

His jaw tightened.

"You think so, do you? You think I'm a monster—"

"Step back and take a look at yourself, Spike. Look at how you behave, and then you tell me that you aren't one! You're warped! Like a funhouse mirror of who you were."

"Maybe I am, but at least I'm bloody honest about it! You spent your time toying with me—made me believe—you made me believe—" His voice broke and he cleared his throat gruffly. A moment later, he continued in a harsher tone: "Then, you bloody left. Disappeared. We all thought you were dead—I thought you were dead. Shot full of bleeding heroin—fucked up in the head—what did you expect would happen when Dru found me?"

Buffy flinched at that.

"I know I shouldn't have lied to him—or you—or—or whoever. And if I'm to blame for what happened in that alley, then God knows I'm sorry for it. But it happened before—you were a vampire before I left! And whatever happened afterward wasn't my fault. Angel told me…he said you had a choice not to do the things you did. That you did them because you liked doing them, and that the only part of you that was left was the part that hated. He said—"

"Oh, well. If _Angel_ said it…" His tone was biting.

Without warning, she hauled off and hit him. Not hard, considering what she might have done, but her palm cracked against his cheekbone with enough force to rock his head to the side. "You talk about _me_ being loyal!" she spat. "You say you're William! Then, you tell me how you could swear undying love to me, and then go off and fall in love with Drusilla!"

Spike put his hand to his throbbing face, feeling strangely elated by her sudden violence, by the venom in her tone.

_Is she jealous?_ he wondered. _Is she jealous of Dru?_

"I was never in love with Drusilla," he told her. All the hardness was gone from his voice now, and he moved a step closer to her.

"You made a good show of pretending, then!"

"I wasn't in love with her," he insisted. "I loved her, of course. Couldn't much help loving her. She needed me, and she was all I had. She was like—like a child—"

"A child you slept with," she cut in dryly. His temper flared.

"As if you've been a bloody model of chastity! You've got more notches in your headboard than I do in mine!"

"You're disgusting." She turned away.

"That's right, Slayer!" he shouted after her. "Run, goddamn you. The disappearing act is what you're best at."

One hand resting on the rung of the ladder, Buffy paused. She didn't turn back to look at him, but her voice was cold and clear carrying as she said: "It wasn't my decision to come back."

"But you knew it was a possibility! You fucking knew that any day you might just bugger off into a cloud of smoke courtesy of those two bitches you live with. You knew that, and you still went and made promises you had no business making. Promises you fucking knew you couldn't keep!"

He darted down the length of the cave to where she stood, grabbed her by the wrist and pried her hand from the ladder. "Look here"—digging into the pocket of his jeans—"You bloody look at this, and then you tell me I don't love you. That I didn't spend every minute of every day for a hundred and twenty-one goddamn years thinking about you."

He shoved something into the hand he held, forcing her fingers to close around it, and then he released her. Buffy looked down at the object—a small wooden box—with some confusion. It was worn smooth, as if he had carried it for a long time, and there were a few dirty remnants of what looked like velvet still clinging to the edges. It almost looked like—

She glanced up at Spike, who said stubbornly, "Open it."

Buffy did. A small piece of folded paper fluttered out, but she caught it before it reached the floor. It appeared to be the page of a book—the upper right corner, judging from the shape of it. The thick paper had gone soft and yellow with age, and when she unfolded it, the crease from the fold was so deep it had almost become part of the paper. Spike could have told her every line of text that was printed on it; instead, he hung back, and watched silently as she smoothed out the paper with her thumb and began to read.

_When thou smilest, my beloved, __  
__Then my troubled heart is brightened, __  
__As in sunshine gleam the ripples __  
__That the cold wind makes in rivers._

When she looked back up at him, her eyes were wide with shock.

"What happened to the rest of it?" she whispered.

He chuckled humorlessly and rubbed a hand over his chin. The sting of that loss was as fresh today as it had ever been. He told her bitterly, "Dru tore it up, the crazy bint. She got angry…because she knew that I…"

His voice trailed away; she was staring into the box again.

"What…"

It sounded like a question, but Spike didn't answer because he knew that it wasn't one. However, he couldn't have answered even if had he wanted to because, as he watched her dip her fingers into the box, he felt a lump form in his throat. He felt almost sick with love for her.

It was a long moment before he could gather himself together enough to say, "I told you it had to be the perfect ring."

He didn't intend the words to be hurtful, but suddenly Buffy looked as if he had slapped her. She made a small, strangled sound, and shut the lid of the ring-box with a snap. She pushed it back at him, and, overwhelmed by a confused mix of hope and fury, she lashed out, shoving him in the chest so hard that he stumbled back against the far wall.

"But you can't be him!" she choked out. "You can't be—he wouldn't do that. All those you things you've done—he would never—"

Immediately, his own temper flared.

"Well, let's just take away everything that means anything to _you_, Slayer, and then take away your bloody conscience, too. Then, you tell me what you'd be capable of doing!"

"I wouldn't do what you did! I wouldn't kill my own mother!"

Spike winced at that, but he didn't try to deny it.

"Not going to pretend it didn't happen, pet. That I didn't—kill—her. But I'll ask you to keep your goddamned mouth shut about it until you know what happened because it wasn't like that."

"Then, what was it like?" she demanded. Her voice was low, but spiteful, goading him to answer even when he would have said nothing.

"She was dying, Buffy. Did you forget that on the trip back? She was all I had left in the fucking world—and she was dying. After it happened—after Dru—well, after that I went back to the house to check on her. We'd both disappeared, and I reckon the stress of it made her worse; she was worse. Idiot that I was, I thought I could—"

He paused, and she prompted quietly: "Thought you could what?"

"Save her."

The meaning behind the words was clear, and Buffy didn't have to ask him what he meant. There was a quiver in her voice—rage and something that was not rage—when she said, "What happened afterward?"

"I did something wrong. She was—she came back—wrong. She wasn't my mother anymore. And she said things—kept saying things—about me. About us. She and I. _You_ and I. And then, she tried to—so I—" His voice cracked.

Quickly, he turned his face away from her—

_Bugger all._

—and tried to choke back a sob.

Buffy grabbed the ladder again and started to hoist herself up onto it, but for whatever reason, before she did, she paused.

Spike heard the soft crunch of her footsteps on the dirt floor as she approached, but he didn't look over at her. He didn't want her to see the tears in his eyes. When she was right in front of him, he said harshly, "Well?"

"I can't," she whispered. Her voice was so soft that he quickly glanced up. Her eyes were soft, too. Green filmed with silver, soft and sad. As he watched, a tear slipped from the corner of one eye and snaked a trail down her cheek, and he remembered, as if from a dream, the way her tears felt as they fell onto his bare throat. The circumstances here were almost laughably different, and he was hardly the same creature he had once been. But she…she was still his. Still Elizabeth. And his heart hurt for her.

She loved him. Spike was certain of that now. Perhaps, she did not want to admit it, but she did love him.

"You can't…." he began.

Buffy narrowed her eyes, and she was arguing more with herself than with Spike as she said, "It's stupid! It would be stupid. Maybe you are. Maybe part of you _is_. But it would still be stupid. You're still a vampire. You don't know how to be good; you've forgotten how to be good. You don't even know wrong from right—"

She started to turn away then, but he grabbed her arm and held her back.

"Then, teach me!" he said hoarsely. Desperately.

Buffy pulled her arm out of his grasp, and immediately, Spike turned his head to the side, his muscles tensing for a blow. But, unbelievable as it seemed, she did not hit him. Instead, he felt her hands touch his face, both of her warm, smooth palms passing over his temples. She slid her fingers around to the back of his skull, burying them in his hair, and when he looked over at her in shock, she nuzzled his cheek.

"I hit you," she whispered into his skin as he immediately wrapped his arms around her. "I hit you—God, you stupid idiot. How could you do all those things?"

The words sounded hard, but they were barely audible even to his sharp ears. He mumbled back, "You lied to me."

Her mouth grazed a path along his cheekbone to his ear. Her breath was slow and wet and warm on his cool skin, and an involuntary shiver ran through him. As it had before, the century melted away, and he became that same pathetic virgin—the same thirty-year-old boy—he had once been, almost overwhelmed by her presence. He bent his head, nudging hers to one side so that he could bury his face in the crook of her neck. "God, Buffy," he groaned into the soft flesh. "Oh, God. It's been so frustrating."

"What has?" Her voice was gentle.

"My whole fucking life. It—it's been so bloody hard. Jesus Christ, I know I've done wrong…everything I've done has been wrong. But if you were there…if you hadn't left…Dru wouldn't have mattered."

Buffy's fingers stroked through the hair on the back of his head, making delicious trails along his scalp. He was nestling into her warm skin with his mouth and nose. A vampire at her throat, and she didn't even react, except to murmur, "Drusilla would have found you anyway; I didn't change anything to make that happen."

He raised his head at that, and his grip on her shoulders became so tight it was a wonder the chip didn't fire. "You don't understand," he told her through gritted teeth, struggling to find a way to make her. "It _wouldn't_ have mattered."

"What wouldn't have mattered?" asked Buffy. Although she looked bewildered, her hands never stopped petting him.

"If you'd been there, it wouldn't have mattered what Dru did. Hell, Buffy…all I wanted was you. When I crawled out of that coffin, the first thing I thought of was you. If you'd been there, I could have been good. I _can_ be good—teach me to be good. Let me be—"

The ceaseless caress of her hands stopped. Suddenly, they were clutching at his hair, dragging his head down toward hers. Her mouth, petal-soft, was now only centimeters away.

"I hurt you," she whispered.

"Yes."

"You hurt me, too." Her tone wasn't accusing or angry, just very, very soft. He gave a slight nod, moving his head as much as her grip would allow. Her gaze was so direct it was startling; she only ever looked at him that steadily when there was hatred in her eyes. But there was no hatred now. Now, there was only…

_Love. She loves me. She does._

And almost as if she read his mind—almost as if to illustrate that point—Buffy brushed her mouth across his bottom lip, murmuring, even as she did so, "Let's not do that again."

* * *


	53. Chapter FiftyTwo

**Chapter Fifty-Two**

His blue eyes were so close, she could have counted his lashes, and although there was confusion there, still the lids drooped half-shut as if he were waiting for a kiss. His full bottom lip was trembling in that familiar way and she felt her heartbeat quicken in response.

_Vampire,_ she thought dazedly, as his breath—lukewarm—passed over her mouth. _He's a vampire without a soul. What are you doing? Vampires are bad—_

_But he can learn to be good,_ she argued with herself, unconsciously echoing Spike's earlier words—the words that had completely undone her resistance. _He wants to be good; he wants to learn. He wants me to teach him._

Of course, she knew that he wanted her to teach him only because "good" was what _she_ wanted him to be. For himself, he probably couldn't care less. It wasn't an absolution he was seeking; it was her love. Buffy knew there was no guilt in his heart for the crimes he had committed and that, alone, should have been enough to turn her from him. Yet, the expression in his eyes was so tender. Even if he was not good, some part of him was still soft, still in love with her, still William.

She couldn't stop herself from longing for that part of him.

"But you have to be good," she murmured. Her lips grazed his again, and she murmured the words almost directly into his mouth. Spike closed his eyes and tilted his head, trying to kiss her, but Buffy evaded him by turning her face to the side. "You have to try," she insisted, nuzzling his jaw. He drew a shuddering sigh.

"Do you think I won't? Buffy, you're the only good thing that ever happened to me. Do you honestly think I'd fuck it up? Risk losing you again?"

Again, his voice surprised her: as soft as down. It was neither Spike nor William, but somewhere in between. The North London accent he had adopted so long ago wouldn't leave him completely, but it was uneven now, dulled by the more genteel and only half-remembered intonation of his former self. Although not entirely familiar, something about it was oddly appealing. A pleasant little shiver skated down her spine and, like before, she murmured to him, "Tell me you love me."

And, like before, he answered her eagerly.

He was wearing a shirt she didn't recognize, an ancient long-sleeved polo that had probably once been black but had faded, over time, into a dull charcoal gray. She knew that he must have put it on for her benefit. It wasn't something he would have worn of his own choice. Like the khakis he had once donned to impress her, it was decidedly preppy, oddly at variance with his present day tough-guy façade. Something in that attempt to change touched her. Had he tried to visit her while she was gone? Was that how he'd found out about Angel? Had Giles and the others misled him, gloated over it to him? It certainly would explain things if they had.

She put her hand to his frayed collar, stroking three fingers down to the short line of buttons beneath it. The cotton fabric had grown thin from many washings (How _did_ he wash his clothes?), and it was so soft she wanted to rub her cheek against it, so she did. He smelled very strongly of some type of alcohol, not beer or bourbon but something sweeter, something pleasant. There wasn't a trace of tobacco nor of leather, almost as if he had realized how much she disliked those scents, that they reminded her of how far he had come from where he had been. She nuzzled the crook where his neck met his shoulder, the flesh of which hadn't been hardened by a century of wickedness, and she breathed him in. Beyond everything else, that was still the same.

Buffy whispered three words into that soft, sweet smelling skin. As quiet as they were, a man's ears wouldn't have been able to catch them, but Spike wasn't exactly a man. He was something more—or something less—and he heard them clearly enough. His muscles tightened and, suddenly, she found herself caught in a crushing embrace.

He covered her face with kisses, her throat with soft, blunt-toothed bites. Her ribs throbbed beneath the pressure and it occurred to her that he had enough strength in his arms to snap them in two, but she didn't ask him to relax his grip. Instead, she slipped her hands underneath the tail of his shirt, slid them along the smooth, strong cords of his back.

Spike kept muttering her name; it sounded like pleading. When his mouth reached the right side of her neck and the scars Angel had given her, he slowed, tracing his cool tongue across the indentations in the skin. The edges of his teeth pressed down lightly as he found the pulsing vein beneath the blemish, and he sucked on it as if he had already laid it open. Buffy moaned. She could almost feel him pulling the blood up from between her legs, could almost feel the sharp points of his canines buried in her flesh although he hadn't even allowed them to descend.

"Did he touch you?" His voice, caught somewhere between a growl and a purr, made her breastbone tingle. It was a sound that, despite the tenderness of his caresses, was all jealousy.

"Did who…?"

"You smell like him," he persisted, raising his head. His blue eyes were sullen. "Clothes smell like bloody _Angel_."

As if from a dream, Buffy remembered that Angel had pushed her against the wall during their argument. Before she could decide whether to admit this to Spike, he began to fumble with her sweater, pushing it up and over her stomach.

_Too fast. Aren't we're going too fast—_ she thought dizzily. But she pulled her arms from beneath his shirt anyway, and raised her arms so that he could drag the sweater over her head.

Her undergarments were hardly more than utilitarian, and, for a moment, she felt embarrassed to have him see them. But his eyes dilated as he looked at her—all black but for a cloudy ring of blue—and she saw him swallow hard. Although the jealousy remained, all the bravado had gone out of his tone as he whispered, "Buffy…don't leave again."

Suddenly feeling as if she might cry, Buffy buried her hands in those soft, unruly curls and dragged his head down. There was an instant when she saw the enraptured look in his eyes, then her mouth found his, filling the unnatural coolness of it with her own heat. Spike tried not to push his lower body against her, but he did anyway. She dropped her hand down, gently rubbed at the swell of his fly. He made an indistinct sound against her lips, and his knees almost buckled. It made him seem fragile—a very William thing for him to do.

"You're still mine, aren't you?" she whispered.

"Yours." His words were husky, slurred around a kiss, but he sounded as if he liked the idea.

"Then, I'm not going to leave." She hesitated but couldn't quite hold back the next words, although they came so quietly only he could have heard them. "I'm yours."

"Damn right, you're mine," he rumbled, dropping his head to kiss her shoulder. "Nobody else can have you. If Angel ever tries—" He didn't finish the thought.

Buffy shivered a little. Not from his words but from the light skimming of his fingertips up her arms. They slid beneath the straps of her oh-so-functional and not-very-pretty bra, easing them down as he nibbled at the sensitive skin of her shoulder.

Mistaking the small shudder for an indication of nervousness, he murmured into her flesh in the most gentle, familiar way, "I love you, Buffy. Let me love you."

Her breath caught and, for a moment, held.

"You remember that?" she whispered finally. "Over a hundred years…and you remember what I said—?"

"I remember everything you said."

* * *

* * *

Afterward, she stayed far longer than she should have. Three o'clock in the afternoon until almost three in the morning: she knew that her friends were probably frantic with worry. Of course, she hadn't told them how long she would be in Los Angeles, hadn't told them much of anything, actually. But she knew they would be worried. Probably, Willow had already called Angel, since apparently that was what she had been doing lately, playing reporter to him. Buffy felt a twinge of disgust as she thought of it. She hated the idea of them talking about her behind her back, comparing notes.

His body half-tangled in the worn sheets, Spike lay and watched her as she began to dress.

"Sun's not up," he began slowly. "It's not like they'll be sitting up with a stopwatch. You could stay 'til…"

His voice held little hope in it and he didn't _look_ disappointed when she said that she couldn't, but with William—with Spike—it was hard to tell. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Can I have this?"

She was holding up the shirt he had been wearing. Spike raised an eyebrow at her. "Help yourself. God knows, I don't want the poncy thing," he answered with a shrug.

Buffy laughed. "Why were you wearing it?"

He didn't answer, just watched her pull it over her head.

When she was dressed, her discarded sweater folded in a tidy bundle over one arm, Buffy sat down on the edge of the bed. There was something she had to tell him before she left, something she had to make him understand; but she had no idea how to broach the subject. If it upset him—

It would definitely upset him, she thought.

"Spike, we've got to…"

He held up his hand, palm out, in a gesture for her to stop.

"It's all right, love. I know. You want to keep it from them."

Flushing a little at the realization that he could read her so easily, Buffy rushed into a muddled attempt at reassurance. "It's just…they're still getting used to the idea that we…I mean…that when I was gone…and it will take them a while to accept it. If I add this on top of it, they'll really hit the roof. You understand that…right?"

Silence.

"And it isn't forever," she added quickly. "Just for a little while. Once I make them see that you…that you're…"

Spike scowled. "That I'm _what_?"

"That you're…him."

"That'll happen," he muttered. He started to sit up, but Buffy pushed him back down.

"Don't." Her voice was pleading. "You think I'm embarrassed about it, but I'm not. I'm just trying to keep everyone from freaking out. I mean, I'm still getting used to the idea myself. When I came here tonight, I didn't exactly intend to do—what we did."

"What did you intend?"

"To find out the truth."

"Did you?" There was a challenge in his tone.

"You know the answer to that." Buffy started to touch his arm, but he looked so annoyed she was afraid he might reject her and she dropped her hand.

He sighed heavily. "Thing is, pet, when you try to keep everybody happy, you'll suffer the same consequence as every other bloody person who attempts it. Nobody will be happy."

"What else am I supposed to do?" she demanded, not angry but forlorn, desperate for an answer that would work for everyone. Spike grimaced and reached for her in a way that almost seemed involuntary. Even as he drew her against his chest, Buffy thought he looked as if he would have preferred to be on the other side of the room with a bottle in his hand.

"Jesus, I don't know. You're asking me? My answer would be to tell them to go fuck themselves and get on with your life, but I know you'll never do that. For whatever reason, you're willing to let the lot of them dictate to you. You're the sodding hero, Buffy. You don't need the people whose arses you have to save telling you what to do. You just like being controlled."

"What?" She pulled back from him and stood up. "I do not!"

Stung by her retreat, Spike stood also. However, he went for the aforementioned bottle on the other side of the room.

"Yeah? Then why do you let them do it?" he asked as he unscrewed the cap. "Why did you have no problem with the idea of playing the 'little woman' back in London? Headstrong little bint like you should've been chafing under the patriarchal yoke, but I didn't hear any complaints. Didn't see you out slaying the nasties—"

"I couldn't risk changing the past," she argued. He snorted.

"Couldn't risk changing the past by killing a couple of demons, but you'd shag me six ways from Sunday. Right." His voice dropped lower, became almost sympathetic as he added, "You didn't mind putting up with the chauvinism back then because it gave you an excuse to not think for yourself, to give up your responsibilities. You got to be taken care of."

There was nothing she could say to that. She watched him raise the bottle to his lips and take a long swallow.

"It's the same here, isn't it?" he asked afterward. "As long as they'll think for you, then you don't have to. As long as they're happy with you, then you think you're all set. You get your sense of self-worth from every other goddamn person on earth but yourself. You think if they get angry, then they'll leave and you'll be alone. That you won't be able to think for yourself when you don't have anyone else to do it for you."

"Well, can you blame me for not wanting to make them so angry they'd leave?" she asked, latching onto one of his statements and disregarding the rest. "Would you want to be all alone?"

"What the fuck do you think I've been since you left me?" Spike snapped. "Least you'd have me, although I guess now I know what that would be worth to you."

"So, then, that's it?" she asked softly. "It's you or them?"

"That's not what I'm saying," he insisted. "I just…I've waited so _long_, Buffy. So bleeding long to have you. Now, you're telling me if I have you I've got to be your dirty secret."

The look in his eyes made her feel as if she had just killed a puppy. Four long strides and she was standing before him, her hands cupping either side of his face. "Not dirty," she murmured, kissing him. "Just secret, just for now. If you'd just wait for a little while—"

"Looks like I don't have a choice, does it?" he muttered. She began to nestle into his neck, finding all the right spots to nibble, and he shrugged impatiently. "Best not, love. You've got to run, remember? Got to get home before the bloody bed-check."

"I've got a little time," she answered, leaning down to pepper his chest with kisses and soft bites. "Anyway, I need to do something before I go."

"Yeah—what's that?" Spike asked. She sank to her knees in front of him, and he suddenly staggered back against the table, bracing himself against to keep from falling. He closed his eyes and lolled his head back.

"Oh."

* * *

* * *

"Oh, my God. You totally had sex with her."

Spike—sprawled on his bed but partially clothed—choked into his pillow as he came awake. For a second, he wondered if he had only imagined the voice, if he had been dreaming. Then, his eyes found her standing in the murky shadows near the foot of the ladder.

"What in the buggering fuck—?" he sputtered nonsensically. "What time is it?"

"Almost four."

Still shocked by her arrival, Spike could only gape at her, but Dawn mistook his surprise for something else. She said defensively, "I went to school! Just got out, actually. I had to walk here. My book bag's upstairs."

Spike tried to digest this information, but his brain didn't seem to be functioning correctly. He sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes. His hands smelled like Buffy. Everything did.

"Bully for you then," he grumbled at Dawn. She was staring at him, wide-eyed, and he snapped irritably, "_What_?"

"Wow, do you, like, work out to get that way? Or, is it just some kinda vampire perk thing?"

"Huh?" He followed the line of her gaze to his bare torso. "Oh, bloody hell."

"Don't worry about it," Dawn said coolly as he rummaged through the debris on the floor, looking for a shirt. "I've seen worse."

"Considering that you have Cinemax and very little parental guidance, I'd say you have."

"How'd you know I watch that channel?" she asked indignantly.

"You told me."

"Oh, yeah…"

Spike found a wrinkled black t-shirt under his bed and he quickly wriggled into it. Now that his drowsiness had started to subside, Dawn's voice had lost its chipmunk-shouting-into-a-bullhorn quality, and he began to understand just what it was she had said.

"Why do you think I had sex with Buffy?"

"Well…didn't you?" Spike just raised his eyebrows at her and she sighed. "Okay, well. You know how everyone is always getting into everyone else's business around here..."

"Much to my dismay," he interjected dryly. She seemed oblivious to the irony of her statement.

"Anyway, Buffy was supposed to be in L.A., right? Seeing Angel. Not that she said so, of course, but a blind idiot would have realized it. Nobody knew when she was coming back, so Willow decided to call Angel to see if she'd gotten there—and if she'd left."

"So?"

"So, according to Angel, she should've been back in Sunnydale yesterday afternoon, but she didn't come home then. She didn't show up until this morning, right before I left for school, _and_—" here Dawn pulled out her trump-card "—she was wearing a different shirt than the one she'd left in."

"At what point does the trail of evidence start to lead to me?"

Although Dawn was busying herself lighting the torches that had burned out during the course of the day, she was looking at him askance. There was a sly, amused note in her voice when she finally answered his question.

"You mean aside from all the hickeys? 'cause we _know_ she didn't sleep with Angel."

"And how do 'we' know that?" As always, Spike found himself intrigued by how perceptive she was. Give her a set of tire tracks and a cigarette butt, and she could probably solve a goddamned murder case.

"Would _you_ want to sleep with Angel?" she asked, as if it were obvious. Spike choked back a laugh.

"Point well taken," he said. "What'd Buffy say? I'm assuming you already put her through this line of questioning."

"No, I didn't. By the time I got downstairs, Willow and Tara were already giving her the third degree. They'd called Giles, too."

Spike reached for a cigarette but stopped himself. "Wanted to know all about her trip, I reckon," he sighed.

"Actually…they didn't. That's kind of weird, isn't it?" Dawn frowned as if she had only just realized it herself. "But they didn't mention it at all. It was like they'd all talked about it and decided not to bring it up, because they acted as if she hadn't been gone at all."

"So, what did they talk to her about?"

"Money."

"Money?" Spike echoed, frowning. Dawn nodded.

"They want her to get a job," she said.

* * *


	54. Chapter FiftyThree

**Chapter Fifty-Three**

Spike wasn't sure whether to laugh at Dawn's revelation or pull out his shotgun and kill them all. In the end, he merely gave into temptation and lit a cigarette.

"Well, that is just full of irony, isn't it? Do you think they were trying to help me prove my point to her? If so, I'd say they made a bloody good job of it."

Dawn looked confused.

"Uh…what?"

"Never mind. Just tell me what the Slayer had to say about it…about them ordering her to get a job."

Spike thought he spoke casually, but Dawn wasn't fooled. She crossed her arms across her chest and shook her head. "They weren't exactly _ordering_ her," she began. When she saw his face, however, she hastily added, "I don't really know how she reacted. Xander showed up right after they started talking about it, and he caught me spy—uh, listening. He drove me to school and that was the last I heard about it. I haven't been home yet."

"Well, you ought to go home," Spike answered irritably. "All the pressure they're putting on her, she's liable to crack. You reckon she might like to have someone there with her when she does?"

Dawn bridled at that.

"Well, why not you?" she retorted. "You're the one who spent all last night with her. And—" she suddenly looked amused "—she was definitely in a better mood because of it. Before the rest of them got hold of her, I mean. I was upstairs, but I heard her humming when she first walked in the door, and it was classical music at that. Who would've thought Buffy even knew any classical music?"

Spike winced.

"Yeah, well. Don't be spreading that one around, all right? About her being here all night. There's no imagining how the Injustice League would react. From what I've heard, the Watcher nearly had a coronary when he found out she'd had it on with me while I was human."

"Since when do you care how they react?" Dawn asked. "You've pretty much made a hobby out of cheesing everybody off."

"I care because of how it would affect Buffy. God knows, she's got enough on her plate right now without adding any more to it." Spike's voice was dull. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dawn raise her eyebrows skeptically.

"You should go see her," she pressed. "I'm going home now; you can walk with me."

"Don't think so, Bit. Not today."

"Why not?"

Spike turned his back on her and didn't answer. Truth be told, he didn't think he would be welcome at Buffy's house even if he decided to go. After all, he was supposed to be a secret.

* * *

* * *

The autumn air was surprisingly chilly, and as soon as Buffy stepped over the threshold, she considered going back inside for her coat. However, even that task seemed too arduous, too wearying to carry out. She sank down on the back porch steps. Other than her own bedroom, it was the only place she could go to be alone. She needed to be alone now; she needed to think. She needed to breathe in that crisp, clean air and relax the tightness in her chest.

Bills.

Her heart began to gallop and her shoulders tensed at the mere thought of the thick stack of white envelopes that now lay on her kitchen counter. To her friends' credit, they had broken the news to her as gently as they knew how. Also to their credit, they likely would not have mentioned it so soon after her return had the situation not been desperate. The mortgage payment was past due; the utility companies were threatening to shut off their service, and the bank accounts had long been emptied of their contents in order to pay bills during her absence.

Of course, though dire, the situation was not _hopeless_. They tried to assure her of that. In fact, Willow had already found her a prospective job, a position working as a Tae Bo instructor at Sunnydale University's student gym. It paid ten dollars an hour, which Willow assured her was prime, but Buffy had her doubts. After all, her mother must have cleared at least three times that at the gallery, and it had certainly not made her wealthy. Moreover, the thought of returning to the University and having her former classmates see her as an employee—a dropout—made her cringe. She might as well stamp "miserable failure" across her forehead. But what other choice did she have? She had no truly marketable skills, no higher education to fall back on. If she could spend her days capitalizing on her physical prowess…well, she felt she really wasn't in a position to complain about it.

She was supposed to interview with the gym's manager the following day. Industrious creature that she was, Willow had already taken it upon herself to set it up. When she had told Buffy about it that morning, it was obvious that she expected to receive gratitude from her friend for her efforts, and Buffy wearily complied. She knew there was little point in questioning why no one else had thought to contribute to the household expenses, and no point at all in complaining about the suddenness of the announcement. This was her life now and there was no point in fighting it.

She watched as a breeze stirred up the dead leaves on the lawn, making them dance in the late afternoon sunshine. It was odd that Giles had been so quiet though, she thought. He hadn't spoken a word while Willow expounded on the virtues of the job she had found; he didn't even seem to be listening. His eyes were glazed as if he was lost in some other thought, and his mouth had been set in a tight line. Buffy wondered why he even bothered to attend the financial summit if he was not planning to be involved in the proceedings, but she didn't bother to ask him. His goodbye to her, once the unpleasant affair ended, was nothing more than a perfunctory nod. It made her uneasy. She wondered if he could have found out about her romp with Spike, although she couldn't imagine how he might have. Then again, perhaps he was only angry with her for her unexplained absence, an issue around which everyone seemed to be carefully skirting.

The thought of Spike pushed all concern for Giles out of her head. How she wished she could go to him now. She would rest her head on his broad shoulder and tell him her worries. Of all people, she knew Spike would sympathize with her. He'd lost his father at age nine and gained the title of head of the family once he reached thirteen. Regardless of the wealth that came with them, the responsibilities must have been tremendous. He would understand the painfully constricted sensation in her throat, the throbbing tension at the base of her skull and in her shoulders; he would have felt them, too. He'd shouldered his load and, more than anything, she wanted to ask him how he'd borne it.

Of course, she couldn't run crying to Spike whenever she had a problem. This wasn't 1880 and she was supposed to be an adult. At any rate, he was already annoyed with her about her friends. The last thing she needed to do was place added strain on an already complicated relationship—and more than anything else, their relationship certainly was complicated.

Buffy was being very careful not to think about all the bad things he had done in his past or to consider all the bad things he _might_ do without the microchip to hold him back. He had promised to be good now, and she believed him because he was William. But she still didn't want to think about it.

Instead, she found her mind wandering back to the night before. When she closed her eyes, she could almost feel him nibbling at her collarbone, tracing with his fingertips the small curves of her breasts, the hollow of her abdomen. Just as they had in London, his hands trembled when he touched her. However, it wasn't nerves this time. He knew what he was doing now, and he didn't always wait for her to take the lead. She melted under his touch, but the expression in his eyes confused her. Behind the desire, they seemed almost sad, almost pained; it hurt just to look into them. When she asked him why he looked like that, he picked up her hand and put it to his chest, over the place where his heart no longer beat.

_It hurts a little— _

What does?

—shedding old calluses.

* * *

* * *

It was almost pathetic, the amount of time he devoted to waiting for her.

Of course, Spike had known she wouldn't visit during the early part of the day. She hadn't slept in almost forty-eight hours and was long overdue for a rest. He'd spent most of the day in bed as well. But after Dawn woke him—and after she left—he couldn't seem to settle down.

As the afternoon melted into early evening, he began to look for her in earnest, although, of course, he told himself he was not. But he kept to the crypt's upper level, paced the floor restlessly, picked up books and dropped them, sat down, stood up again and then paced some more. He changed his clothing to rid himself of the cigarette stink and cleaned the crypt by shoving empty bottles and dirty clothing beneath the furniture. All the while, he told himself that he had to be patient. She'd have to spend some time with the Bit before she came to him. After all, there was dinner and homework to get through, maybe some of that sisterly bonding for which they seemed so long overdue. Likely, she would not come for a few hours yet. Three hours, maybe, but not more than that. Surely, not more than that. After all, she had seemed almost reluctant to leave that morning; she must be eager to see him, to be with him. She wanted to be with him.

She did.

She did.

She did.

At half-past nine, Spike grabbed a bottle, threw himself down in front of the television, and stared blankly at a game show that's object seemed to be forcing people to eat insects for money. His fingertips dug into the shabby arms of the recliner, and his teeth ground against the mouth of the bottle when he drank.

_Come, goddamn you. Come._

It was almost midnight before she did. Spike didn't hear her come in. He had dozed off in front of the television and still sat slumped in the chair with his legs spread and his head dropped to one side, a dented flask held loosely in one hand. Buffy slid into the seat with him, her fingers spider-walking along his chest as she nibbled at his earlobe.

"How's this for a wakeup call?" she murmured when his eyes opened.

A drowsy chuckle from Spike. Still half-asleep, he sat motionless for a moment and let her make up for all the distress she'd caused him. She kissed her way along his neck and throat, slowly making her way to his mouth. When she reached it, she paused, whispered playfully, "Did you miss me today?"

_Well, yes…_

His answer got lost in the indistinct rasp that accompanied it, a sound caught somewhere between a grunt and a moan. He was already hard and her hand was on him, wedged between their bodies and rubbing lazy circles over the damp spot that had formed at the crotch of his jeans. She smelled different today, a faint sweetness of violets mingling with the already delicious scent of her flesh. He breathed it in, knowing that it was meant for him, and the surge of lust that followed was instantaneous, almost Pavlovian. For a second, he thought that he was going to come in his trousers like some lovesick, pockmarked teenager.

"Buffy…"

His hips jerked beneath her and the hand holding the flask suddenly released its grip. He tried to catch it, but desire had fogged his brain and made him slow to react. The container fell against Buffy's right leg, splashing her with its contents.

When she realized what it was, Buffy made a small cry of disgust and pushed herself off him. The look of utter revulsion in her eyes didn't fade as her gaze moved from the red drizzle of pig's blood on her thigh to Spike's face. He felt it keenly but didn't comment. Instead, he pulled off his shirt and tossed it to her so that she could clean herself up.

"Sorry about that, pet. Didn't mean to douse you. I forgot I was holding dinner leftovers." He kept his tone light, and it was the right thing to do. She offered him a weak smile.

"It—it's all right. I was just…surprised." She used the shirt to dab at the stain on her leg and grimaced when she realized it wasn't coming out. "Guess I'll be picking up some Shout on my way home."

Spike nodded uneasily, feeling as if he had just done something terribly wrong. It wasn't just the clothes she was upset about, he realized, and it wasn't just the blood. It was that he drank the blood. He wasn't sure how to fix that.

"Love, I really didn't—"

"Do you have any water?" she interrupted.

"Got some club soda. Suppose that would work just as well."

"Better, actually. Would you get it?"

He crossed the room and pulled a half-empty bottle out of his refrigerator. She seemed to have collected herself by the time he returned, and when she took it, her smile was genuine.

"I'm afraid I'm going to mess up your shirt—"

"'s all right. I've got others."

"What are you doing with club soda anyhow?" she asked as she dabbed some of it onto the stain.

"Mix it with gin if I'm feeling posh and don't have any tonic. Can I—uh—" Unsure of how to finish the sentence, he gestured to the room in a mute offer to fetch her anything else she might need.

"I'm fine." She bent her head over her work and there was a stretch of quiet before she spoke again. "I guess it's just going to take a little getting used to…the whole blood-drinking thing. The idea that my boyfriend can go…you know…homicidal sometimes."

Spike struggled not to show how much that comment annoyed him. It wasn't as if having a blood drinker for a lover was new to her; she'd been through it all before with sodding Angel. He wasn't the only one who could go homicidal. Angelus—

Of course, her experience with Angelus was probably the source of her concern.

Nevertheless, he couldn't help but feel resentful. How in the hell could she expect him to be good when it was constantly insinuated that he was not? A bit of trust from her end would have been nice.

Cross now, he decided to shift the conversation to a matter _she_ would find distressing. Let her suffer for a change, he thought.

"So…I hear you're joining the American workforce."

"How did you find out?" she asked, surprised. Spike snickered.

"You've got to ask? Your little sister is just a regular fount of information these days."

"Of gossip, you mean." She looked depressed, but Spike was still heartsick himself and it made him spiteful.

"So, go on. Tell me. When does the search for gainful employment start?"

"Actually…I already have an interview. Tomorrow. Willow helped me set it up."

Spike clenched his teeth.

"Damned decent of her to do that," he answered sardonically. "What're you trying out for?"

She told him, and he snorted.

"Right, then. So, you're telling me that you're going to spend your days teaching fat college girls how to kickbox." His words were dripping with sarcasm.

"Well, it's not like I have any better offers rolling in," Buffy answered waspishly.

He narrowed his eyes. "What about afterward? Are you going to use your off time to patrol? Don't you think that schedule will get a little tiring?"

"I haven't really thought about the patrolling part," she admitted.

"Yeah, well. Think about it. You know you'll never be able to give it up. Bloody hell. Of all the jobs for her to find for you—"

"At least it's a job that pays! I need the money!" Buffy exclaimed. She threw down the shirt and turned to him, her eyes blazing. "It's easy for you to stand there bitching about how it's beneath me and how tiring it's going to be. _You_ don't have a thousand dollar a month mortgage payment or a notice from the water authority saying that you're about to be cut off—you don't have a younger sister that you've got to take care of—"

"You're damn right I don't. I also don't have a couple of freeloaders leeching off the things I _do_ have. When the ship is sinking, Buffy, it's an indication you need to throw out the deadweight."

"Willow and Tara are my friends—they don't have anywhere else to live—"

"Let them pay rent then, or find a new place. By God, you aren't the only adult in that house and you aren't the only one capable of singing for your supper."

Her bottom lip began to quiver.

"You know…you could at least pretend to be supportive about this. I've got everyone else telling me what to do…but not telling me how to get it done…and I just want somebody to…to just…" Her voice choked.

"Bleeding Christ—"

He crossed the space separating them in two long strides. Part of him expected her to shove him away, curse him, even to leave; but as he slid his arms around her shoulders, she pressed forward against his bare chest, stood on her toes so that she could bury her face in the crook of his neck. When she began to cry, Spike felt as if someone had removed his entrails.

"Love—don't—" he said helplessly. "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have said all that—"

She shook her head, smearing hot tears across the top of his shoulder. "You don't understand. Mom took care of everything—she never told me about it—I never learned how to do it. Everything's already so behind and I don't know what to do. How can I catch up? Even if I get that job, it won't pay nearly enough to—" Her words broke off into a strangled sob.

Spike shushed her gently, pressing a kiss into the top of her head and crooning in a voice almost too soft for her to hear: "Money's easy got, Buffy. It's easy got."

* * *


	55. Chapter FiftyFour

**Chapter Fifty-Four**

William was later at his business than he intended, and it was early evening before he climbed into the coach for the home journey. He dropped his head back against the leather seat and sighed, expelling a puff of mist into the cold air. It was odd how draining business matters were. He could spend a full day on horseback, riding over fences at a hunt; he could walk six or eight miles to look over his country estate and never grow tired. Yet a few bare hours in the city, seeing to accounts and inventories, discussing sales and purchases, stocks and bonds, left him feeling exhausted. His head ached; he felt dull and stupid, somewhat depressed. Sometimes, he felt as if he would like to sell it all just to be done with it. His money would certainly last him his own lifetime, and, circumstances being what they were, it was unlikely he would ever have an heir to consider. Of course, he knew he could never actually do such a thing. The businesses had belonged to his father; it would break his mother's heart for him to sell them. But it was something to think about on the ride home, something about which he often fantasized.

Although it had yet to snow, the streets were full of slush and ice—the result of a recent rain that had frozen in the night. Matthew didn't hurry the horses; he was always conscientious of them, and even though their shoes had been roughed, it was a terrible strain on an animal to keep its balance on the slick cobblestones. The slow creak of the carriage wheels and muted clop of the horses' feet was lulling, and William closed his eyes.

It was impossible to tell just how long ago he had dozed off, but he was awakened by a sudden, violent lurch. He had to put out his hands to keep from being slung against the seat opposite him, and when he peered out the window, he was just in time to see the horses thrown back almost to their very haunches as Matthew savagely sawed at the bridle bits. William had the glass down in an instant.

"Do you find it necessary to break their jaws?" he snapped, feeling angry and more than a bit shocked. He was very fond of horses, and to see the beasts mistreated by someone they trusted was more than he could bear.

Matthew touched his hat apologetically. "Sorry, sir, but a young lady has just stepped into the road, and I had to pull them in so as not to do her an injury."

William sat back, still much annoyed. These city dwellers seemed to have no regard or respect for others. Did they think it funny to risk being run over just to torment people? He stared out the window morosely.

It was at that point that he saw her, the young woman who had stepped in front of the coach just moments before. A small sort of girl, too thin and not very tall. She was pale and tearful, dressed in clothes that must have come out of a church barrel. Clearly, she was poor, but she did not have the look of the low class about her. At least, not to him. To him, she looked…well, rather beautiful. She was carrying a bulging sack that appeared quite heavy, and he supposed that she had just come from the marketplace. After she crossed the road, he expected her to keep walking south in the direction of the slums. Instead, she stepped through the garden gate of a rather fine house that was obviously in a state of some disrepair. She went straight up the walkway to the door, opened it without knocking, and then stepped inside. William was perplexed until he noticed the small wooden sign planted beside the garden path: The Chapman Institute for Women and Children.

Then, he understood. The Institute was supported by various charities, and sometimes there were men about the city who took up collections for it. They housed women without means but not without skills, as the gentlemen sometimes said. Poor women, mostly widows and orphans. The Institute trained them so that they might enter into servitude to the wealthy. That lovely girl was in there, probably feeling lost and alone. She was available to anyone who had the means to pay her a wage, and there were so many unscrupulous men in London who might take advantage of her vulnerability. The thought of it hurt him, but only briefly. There were so many pressing matters at his own home that he hadn't time to worry about anyone else.

It was several days later before he was to think of her again. For some time Sarah Fitzpatrick had urged him to hire a nurse to care for his mother. He had been unwilling because it seemed so callous and unfeeling, leaving her to the tender mercies of a stranger. Yet, with the trip drawing nearer and his mother's coughing spells growing more frequent, William was reluctant to leave her alone while he was away, for the servants were worthless in that regard. For a little while, he remained undecided. Then, Sarah introduced the possibility of the Chapman Institute. They took in only decent Christian girls, she assured him, and they trained them for most any position. She was certain he could get a trustworthy nursemaid there.

As though some dormant beast had just awoken, William's mind feverishly returned to the blond-haired girl, although, at that time, he had little thought of bringing her home. Yet, at least he might see her, see if she was all right. She had looked so sad before…

It was not his responsibility to hire new help; that task fell to Mr. Edward. However, he insisted upon going to see the place himself; he said he wanted to be absolutely certain that the girls there would make adequate nurses. They would be taking care of his mother, after all.

They were very kind at the Institute and quite attuned to his wishes. In keeping with his position, he did not desire to speak to any of the women—that, he left to Edward. For himself, he merely observed them from a little distance. The head of house showed him around, pointing out likely candidates as they passed them. And lo, if she wasn't one of the first women they saw. Not the first—that distinction went to a sunburned, barefooted woman in her thirties. But, certainly, the young blonde made her appearance not more than five minutes afterward. That had to mean something, surely. That had to be a sign.

Casually, he asked about her history.

They were honest in explaining that she had no real experience at…well…anything. She was an American who had lost her parents and her wealth in rapid succession, although the details of this were not made clear. At any rate, the promise of a job had brought her to London, where she managed to get herself robbed of all her possessions the moment she stepped off the ship. A constable with whom Mr. Chapman was friendly had brought her here.

If she had no training or experience, then why did Dorothea feel she would be a good nurse? William asked. He was watching the girl as she lifted a kettle onto the stove. She looked fatigued, downtrodden, and completely unaware that they were in the room and watching her. When Edward spoke to her, her answers were soft and very brief. Her eyes, while not tearful this time, looked just as desperate as he remembered them.

_I could take away that look. _

The thought came unbidden, and it shocked him so much his heart skipped a beat. A stupid thought; it made no sense at all. He was looking for a servant, nothing more. He hardly heard the voice of the older woman who stood beside him.

Though her professional experience and training were decidedly lacking, Dorothea insisted that Miss Summers had some good practical experience to her credit. Her mother had been ill for quite some time, and Elizabeth had taken care of her during the duration. While not capable of any serious healthcare, she was certainly adequate for what he needed. Of course, if he wished for a young lady with a more extensive medical background, they had Miss Olivia Dawson—

Without even looking in Dorothea's direction, William held up his hand and shook his head. "I want Miss Summers," he said.

_I'm going to take care of her. _

* * *

* * *

The salt from her tears was still on his lips as Spike strode through the deserted streets. It was only a couple of hours until dawn, and he carried his tattered blanket with him, knowing that if he didn't, he'd be stuck in Willie's Place until nightfall.

_Goddamn them._

It was a mantra in his head, a burning in his gut. He could have killed them all for hurting her, for not taking care of her. Where the hell was her Watcher in all this? In some manner of speaking, she worked for him. Where was the bloody paycheck? How could those poncy bastards expect her to walk the graveyards all night and then hold down a full-time job during the day? How did they expect her to live? Sodding spite was what it was. They were punishing her for being different from the others, for being independent and unwilling to follow their rules. They didn't give a shit if she lived or died. They had another slayer—the _real_ slayer—and whether the bint was psychotic or not, it seemed to make no difference. Their loyalties to the girl who'd slaved for them for six years were practically nonexistent.

Aside from the Watcher, Spike didn't allow himself to think of her friends. He knew that if he did, he would be tempted to kill them. Bloody bitches staying in her house, eating her food and using her electricity, emptying her bank account to pay for it all while _they_ got the education _she_ deserved. He might have a chip in his head, but it wouldn't have stopped him from throwing a Molotov cocktail into their lecture hall. It wouldn't have stopped him from doing anything, even snapping their necks, if he had not forced his mind away from it. They had made her cry, and he could have slaughtered them for it.

He could still feel her in his arms, trembling and so small. He'd thrown his duster across the sarcophagus so that she could lie down; she was in no state to use the stairs. She wanted him to lie with her; she wanted to bury her head in his shoulder. Even after she exhausted her tears, she wouldn't stop shaking. His sweetheart. His pet. He would have lain down in the sun for her; he would have cut out his own heart.

Instead, after she left, he made a deliberate—if somewhat desperate—march across town.

Willie's Place was always full of employment opportunities if you knew where to look for them. Spike had never bothered before; he preferred to make his money from poker. But most vampires didn't carry cash—they didn't need to—and his poker buddies rarely had anything beyond what they pulled out of the wallets of dead men. It was enough money for him to buy blood with, but it would be nowhere near what he needed to help Buffy.

The air inside the bar was thick with the smells of blood and liquor. Since daylight was approaching, there were few vampires in sight, but that was fine with Spike. Vampires weren't what he was looking for; vampires weren't businessmen. He sat down at the bar and waited.

"Half and half," he told Willie when the man finally reached him. In any other establishment that would have meant Guinness and lager; in Willie's Place, it was Guinness and kittens' blood.

"Haven't seen you in a few days," Willie said as he set the glass before him. "Still owing money?"

"Took care of that already," answered Spike.

Willie let loose his nervous bark of a laugh. "I'll bet you did. With a stake, no doubt."

"Mm," Spike murmured, taking a drink. After he swallowed, he said as casually as he could, "Actually, I'm looking for work. You know of anyone who could help me with that?"

"What? A good-looking vampire like you? There's probably a ton of it."

"Not that kind," snapped Spike. He picked up his glass again, but before he could drink, the hackles on his neck rose. Someone was watching him.

He turned to see a man standing a little distance away, staring at him. He was clearly human and clearly out of place, but there was something about him, something cold, something that kept the bar's regulars from coming too close to him.

"You make a habit of listening in on private conversations?" Spike asked.

The man merely smiled.

"I couldn't help overhearing. It's a bit unusual, isn't it? A vampire looking for a job. Why does a vampire need money?"

"None of your goddamn business," answered Spike. "Bugger off."

"But I have a business proposition for you. You need money, don't you? I have money; I just need someone strong who can keep his mouth shut."

"Stronger than a human, you mean."

The man nodded. "Much stronger than myself," he replied, drawing nearer. "This isn't hard work, but it isn't child's play either. I need someone who can take care of himself if things get…complicated. Workplace accidents are so tedious, you know."

Spike raised his eyebrows, intrigued.

"Does it pay well?"

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of bills more than a finger's-width thick, bound with a rubber band. He tossed it onto the bar next to Spike's glass. "Is this well enough?" he asked.

Spike's eyes drifted down to the money—all one hundred dollar bills. He put one booted foot onto the rung of the barstool next to him and pushed the stool out for the stranger to sit on.

"Step into my office."

* * *

* * *

"I have a business proposition for you."

Buffy, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, applying makeup, startled at the sound of Giles' voice. Her liner pencil skidded across her eyelid, leaving a streak of black.

"Look what you made me do!" she exclaimed as she turned toward the open doorway. "I'm trying to get ready for the job interview."

Giles frowned.

"I am terribly sorry for interrupting the grooming session; I was under the impression that your interview wasn't for two hours yet."

Buffy leaned closer to the mirror, carefully dabbing at her face with a damp Q-tip, trying to remove the black streak without destroying the rest of her makeup.

"It isn't for two hours yet," she told him. "I'm just so nervous I had to do something or go crazy. It's not like I'm used to interviewing for jobs, you know." She paused. "So…what is it you want?"

Giles stepped back from the threshold and motioned toward the hallway in an indication she should follow him. With a sigh and a final, unhappy glance at the mirror, Buffy did.

He led her down to the kitchen and waited until they were both seated at the table before he spoke. "I would like to discuss your financial situation, if I may."

She shrugged. "It's not like it's any big secret that I'm broke."

"Yes, well…I should tell you that I have been in touch with the Council this week. Once it became clear just how serious the problem was, I thought it might be prudent to inform them of your needs."

"My needs?" she echoed.

"Your financial needs," he clarified.

Buffy's eyes widened.

"What're you telling me? Are you saying they'll give me money?"

"Perhaps. It is something we have been talking about at length."

"So, why haven't they been giving me money before?" she demanded indignantly. "I mean, even when my mom was alive, once I turned eighteen shouldn't I have been paid _something_ for all my trouble? Did they expect me to live off my mother forever?"

"If you had been the only slayer, no doubt they would have compensated you," Giles explained calmly. "Yet, there was Faith to consider. Once you died, you ceased to be the official slayer."

"Oh, really? Why don't you tell me what the hell I've been doing for the past six years, then. Faith was less than useless—I mean, my God, she even worked against us—and you're telling me that she was entitled to money and I wasn't?"

"It was never my decision. Had it been up to me, you would have received some sort of salary once you came of age. They were…less than receptive to the idea. In their minds, you were functioning well without it, so they saw no reason to bother. Now, however, they grow concerned about your ability to do an adequate job. If you are distracted by some sort of daytime employment, they fear you might allow your dedication to your calling to falter."

"Why not let Faith pick up the slack then?" asked Buffy snidely. He sighed.

"Clearly, they understand that isn't an option—I've told them as much myself—and while they aren't exactly sympathetic to your situation, they _are_ businessmen. From that standpoint, I think it is obvious what they must do."

Buffy sat back against her chair, relief momentarily overwhelming her resentment. "Then, I don't have to worry about getting a job. That's what you're saying, right?"

Giles hesitated.

"In manner of speaking," he said slowly. "There is, however, one stipulation."

"What's that?" She was ready to agree to anything.

"Spike."

His eyes were suddenly hard, colder than she ever imagined Giles' eyes could be. Then, she knew. Her secret wasn't a secret anymore.

"Spike…" she echoed softly. "I…I don't understand."

"Buffy, for God's sake, it's obvious!" Giles snapped. He pounded his fist against the tabletop, making her jump. "You go to Los Angeles with no warning whatsoever; you ask Angel if the loss of a soul means the loss of the man, and then you disappear again, not to be seen for over a day. When you come home you're covered in—" He paused, and Buffy pulled at her collar in an attempt to hide the mark on her neck; she hadn't thought anyone had noticed it.

"I don't think I have to tell you how disappointed I am in you," Giles continued, his voice suddenly weary. "To think that you would have so little sense…even Angel was better than this! Spike is amoral, cruel…he has never done anything to help us unless it was for his own personal gain. If it weren't for that chip in his head, heaven knows what he would be doing now. My God, Buffy, the last contact you had with him before you went back in time, he chained you to a wall and threatened to kill you! That, alone, should certainly be proof of his intentions. He might profess love for you now, but a bare six months ago he would have killed you if the chance presented itself—"

"You don't understand!" she burst out. "He's—he's different than Angel—than Angelus. If I had been there when he was turned, he never would have done those things—"

"Don't be a fool," Giles snapped. "I'm sure he has no end of pretty stories to appease your conscience, but the fact remains that he is a killer without a soul. He has no guilt—no shame—"

He suddenly shoved something across the table at her, a plastic folder that she had not noticed before.

"I want you to look at that!" he gritted out. "You look and then tell me you could have stopped him; that you would even have known what to do. Tell me he's still a man inside."

"Look, I don't need to look at pictures," she answered dismissively. "I know exactly what he's capable of. You said it yourself—my past experiences with him were—"

"Open it!" he barked.

Intent on proving him wrong, Buffy flung back the binding of the folder, pulling from it a thin stack of photographs. They were photocopies obviously printed from a fax machine, and the black-and-white images were grainy. Nonetheless, when she looked at the first one, her stomach heaved.

Charles Archer's face stared back at her, mottled and blurred. He was obviously dead, lying on his back, his mouth gaping wide. Only his face and upper body were visible, but that was enough to show what he had suffered. His nose was broken and one cheekbone was dented, as if from a blow with something very heavy. There was an iron spike driven through one of his eye sockets, another one through his chest.

Buffy felt sick. She had known, of course, that this was how Spike had earned his nickname; but somehow that was easy to ignore when it was only words. Seeing it was something else altogether. Better that he should break necks and drink blood than do this.

"That…that was a long time ago," she whispered. She was trying to convince herself more than Giles. For days now, she had been pushing away this very thought with both hands, telling herself that he was going to behave and that past evils no longer mattered. The problem was that she had never once stopped to consider just how horrible the past evils were.

"Yes, it was a long time ago," Giles agreed. "Does that make this man's suffering any less important? Keep looking."

She didn't want to, but somehow she couldn't stop herself. Page after page of photographs, and after the first, not one of them was of a man. They were all young women.

They were all blonde.

The very last one was dated August 1997, less than a month before he had arrived in Sunnydale. Buffy scrunched the paper in her hand and stared at Giles almost accusingly.

"You never showed me these before. Where did you get them?"

"The Council compiled them for me at my request. Most of these were pulled from London newspaper archives. For a long time, our books held little information about Spike's early years, and while they were searching for information for me, the Council discovered that it was because no one—not even the Watchers—knew that he was a vampire. Not until just before he left London, and, after that, he dropped out of sight for several years. We knew about the fixation with young blonde women, of course, but—"

"Then why the hell didn't you tell me?" Buffy demanded.

"Because, we felt it wouldn't matter. Buffy, you are a slayer and that would be a far greater cause for obsession from him than your appearance."

He paused and then continued in a kinder tone. "Look what he did to them, Buffy. You say that you could have kept him from it, but look at his victims of choice; they all resemble you. He killed them in the most heinous manners possible; he mutilated their corpses. What does that tell you of his capacity for good?"

She didn't have an answer for him, and after a moment, he stood up.

"The Council is most willing to assist you financially, Buffy, but only if you cut your ties to Spike. It is entirely up to you. I only hope that you make the right decision."

Still silent, Buffy watched him walk out the door. Then, she looked back down at the sheets of paper strewn across her table.

Those were not the actions of a sane person.

* * *


	56. Chapter FiftyFive

**Chapter Fifty-Five**

_Five thousand dollars._

The noonday sun was relentless; it sifted through the holes in Spike's ragged blanket, burning his knuckles and the back of his neck. He hardly even noticed. His thoughts were fixed on the thick roll of bills crammed into the front pocket of his jeans. The man in the bar—whose name seemed an insignificant detail in the presence of such a large sum of money—had agreed to give Spike half his payment to seal their deal. Naturally, there had been the obligatory "double-cross me and I'll kill you" warning, but Spike did not intend to double-cross him. Five thousand dollars and another five thousand to come; you couldn't beat that for a month's labor. Hell, especially not _this_ type of labor. It was so damned easy he might as well be paid for watching the telly.

Work didn't begin right away. Spike's nameless benefactor had to set things up first; Spike would be contacted once his services were needed. That was fine with him. It would give him some time to plan, to figure out what excuses he could use for not allowing Buffy to stay with him all night, if she wanted to. He knew she'd want to. She'd done it twice already and things…things were getting better between them. Not perfect, but at least now she knew that she could open up to him. He could be her shoulder to cry on…except he didn't want her to cry. Not ever again.

Of course, five thousand dollars wouldn't go very far or very long. According to Buffy, the mortgage was three months behind; that was three thousand dollars right there, even before taking into account the late fees. Then, there were the utilities, which were also late and accompanied by their own penalties. The five grand would cover all those and some groceries besides, but there were next month's bills and the month after that…on and on into infinity. No, five thousand dollars wasn't nearly enough.

Still, it was a start. At the end of the month, he would get another five thousand, and if he did an adequate job, the bloke from the bar said the arrangement could continue indefinitely. Spike would be damned sure to do an adequate job.

He had intended to go home after he left Willie's Place, but halfway to his destination, he suddenly turned around and began running east. The half-glass of blood he'd had at the bar had done little to abate his hunger, and his head was pounding. However, he was too impatient to wait. He knew that Buffy would never take the money from him if he offered it outright. Forget the fact that she'd taken hundreds of pounds from him when she lived with him in London; this would be considered different somehow. At any rate, she would want to know how he came by it, and he had a feeling she wouldn't be pleased by the answer. No, it was much better to be deceitful than risk her displeasure.

That was where Dawn came in.

By sheer luck, no one was in the school parking lot to see him darting up the steps with his head covered. Once inside the foyer, he dumped his blanket in the corner behind a trash bin. A woman was watching him through the open door of an administrative office. She leaned across her desk and cleared her throat to get his attention.

"Can I help you find something?" she asked.

He waved away the question impatiently—"I'm fine. I can read, can't I?"—and continued down the hallway. The building was bigger than he'd first thought and completely unfamiliar, but small enamel plaques marked each room, which made it easier. He had a fair idea of where she would be this time of day.

The cafeteria was almost as large as a football field; there were skylights cut into the roof and an entire wall of windows, making the room almost as bright as the sunlit lawn it overlooked. Annoyed, Spike had no choice but to linger in the doorway, scanning the crowded tables, the congested salad bar and a meat line that seemed to grow longer with every student that left it. The roar of so many voices hurt his ears and made his headache even worse, and for a moment, he considered leaving. Then, he caught her scent.

He traced it to the far left of the entrance, found her sitting at a long table in a mercifully shadowed corner, chatting with a cluster of girls her own age. Carefully, he edged over to her, keeping close to the wall and the shadows cast by a row of soda machines. Dawn had her back to him, but the girl sitting across from her seemed so surprised by his appearance that Dawn immediately turned around to see why her friend looked so startled.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, clearly shocked.

"Got to talk to you a second," Spike answered briefly. With the hardest part of his task over, he reached into his pocket for a much-needed cigarette. Hunger was not helping his head, and the smell of all the living blood in the room made his stomach gnaw at him.

"I'm not really supposed to leave," Dawn said uneasily. "Lunch period is almost over and I've got a history test this afternoon. If I miss it…"

"You won't," he assured her. "We'll make it quick. Wouldn't ask, Bit, but it's important."

Curious, now, Dawn began to gather her things. Her friends stared at Spike in mute fascination.

"You know, you're not supposed to smoke in here," one of them finally mumbled under her breath. She glanced at a group of weary adults who stood nearby and added resentfully, "You're going to get us into trouble."

Something in her tone made him bristle—or, perhaps, it was her dark curls and large eyes, which looked so much like Cecily Underwood's she might have been a younger sister. At any rate, he felt a perverse urge to torment her.

"Right, then. Sorry about that." He dropped the cigarette into her can of soda. "Is this better?"

The girl peered into her Pepsi with dismay, and Dawn shot Spike a dirty look as she hefted her bulging book-bag over her shoulders.

"Sorry, Caitlyn. He doesn't get out of the house much." She climbed to her feet and grabbed Spike's arm, pulling him toward the exit. "I'll see you later, guys."

The three girls watched them leave, identical looks of confusion on their faces.

"Wow," Caitlyn said finally. "Dawn's father is _hot_."

* * *

* * *

"Bugger all," Spike grumbled as they pushed through the crowd of people surrounding the doorway. "Did you hear that?"

"What?" Dawn asked. She paused as if expecting a profound revelation. Instead, Spike merely shook his head and tugged her out into the hallway.

"Those bints think I'm your bloody _father_. Do I look old enough to be a father to you? I mean, a little baby, I'll grant you. But a sodding high-schooler?" He sounded disgusted.

"How old are you, anyway?" Dawn asked, half-jogging to keep up with him.

"Hundred and twenty-one, you know that."

"No…I mean before. When you were still human, how old were you?"

He glanced at her, hesitated before answering. "Thir—twenty-five."

"So, then, technically you're a hundred and forty-six," she pointed out.

But Spike wasn't listening. He was looking in frustration down both ends of the hallway. Kids were milling around everywhere, walking to class, gathering books from their lockers, even just standing around chatting. It didn't exactly make a great place to have a private conversation, particularly one of this nature.

"The band room is always empty this time of day," Dawn said, as if reading his mind. He looked over at her gratefully.

"Where's the band room?"

"It's down the hallway. This way—" She pointed. "You take a left at the end and it's the fourth door on the right after that."

They walked together in silence. Companionable, though Spike did notice Dawn surreptitiously checking her watch. When they reached the band room, he closed the door behind them and leaned against it.

"I'll make it quick, Bit. I know you're on a tight schedule and we can't go into it all now, but I need your help."

Dawn's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "With what?" she asked.

"Money," he answered briefly. "I've got some…and I think I've found a way to get some more…to help you and Buffy. Thing is, I know she'll never take it from me, not a cent. She's stubborn like that. I need—"

"Where'd you get money?" Dawn interrupted. Spike's expression darkened.

"Does it matter?" he snapped. "Point is I got it."

"Okay…so where do I come in?"

"I don't know how to get it to her. Like I said, she'll never take it from me directly. I thought about asking someone else to give it to her, the Watcher or one of her friends. But—"

"They'd never go for it," she finished.

"To put it mildly. If I even opened my mouth about it, they'd let her know what I was doing, and then she'd want to know where I got it. You're no fool, Dawn. You know that I can't get money in any way that'd please her. I've got to figure out some way of giving it to her so she won't know it's from me…some way where she'll take it without losing her pride, without feeling she's taking charity. I need your help to do that."

Dawn hesitated. It made her nervous, the thought of him getting money in a way that wouldn't please Buffy. A lot of money at that, if he thought it would actually help drag them out of the pit of financial ruin. She knew he was right and that Buffy would never go for it. More than that, she knew if Buffy found out, it might very well end the relationship the two of them had only just begun together.

But there was also the money…all those bills that weren't being paid. She'd heard dozens of discussions about it; she'd seen Buffy's eyes, the expression in them anxious and more pitiful than tears. Her sister was only twenty and she was the Slayer besides. If Spike was right, if he could get money, then it meant Buffy wouldn't have to worry about finding a job. Maybe she could even go back to school. Things would be better with money, the way they were before their mother died.

She tilted her chin up and looked into Spike's somber face. "What do I need to do?"

"For now, just give it some thought. After school, before you go home, come to my crypt and we'll hash it out. Between the two of us, we should be able to come up with something."

"I'll be there," Dawn promised. A bell rang in the hallway, and her head whipped around to the clock on the wall behind her. "Sorry, but I've got to—"

He opened the door and then stepped away from it, motioning for her to leave. Dawn knew that he didn't expect her to say anything else, but she paused and, after a moment's hesitation, grabbed him around his narrow waist and hugged him.

"Thanks, Spike."

* * *

* * *

When Dawn arrived at the crypt later that afternoon, she expected to find Spike sleeping or, at the very least, waking up. It had been one o'clock when he arrived at her school; he couldn't have gotten home before two and he must have been exhausted by then. She eased the door open just in case, figuring that if he was sleeping, she could wait upstairs and watch television until he woke up.

But he wasn't asleep.

Instead, she found him standing in front of his miniature refrigerator, a black trash bag clutched in one fist. He was pulling pints of blood out of the fridge, scooping them into the bag.

"You're late," he said before she had a chance to speak. Dawn, who had been about to ask him what he was doing, was immediately diverted.

"I am not! School lets out at three-thirty and it's only a little after four. Did you think I could sprout wings and fly here or something?"

"Would've been helpful." His voice held a trace of amusement that only succeeded in annoying her further. She gave a theatrical sigh.

"So, let's talk money already, if you're in such a hurry."

Spike dropped the bag he was holding and turned to her, suddenly all business.

"I was thinking about that," he said. "How we talked about having someone else give it to her. I was thinking maybe your father would make a good stalking-horse."

"My father," Dawn echoed bitterly. "We couldn't even get in touch with him when Mom died. Do you really think we could call him now? He doesn't even pay child support. If he did, maybe we wouldn't be in this mess!"

"Well, yeah. That's sort of the point."

Dawn was bewildered.

"What's the point?"

"That you never talk to him. It makes it easy, see. We can make it look like the money's coming from him…and he won't have any idea. That way, no one finds out who's really behind it."

"You mean send it in his name?" Dawn asked. For a moment, she was excited. Then, her face fell. "How can we do that, though? I mean, we don't even know what return address to use. Last we heard he lived in LA but…"

"That part's easy. We'll just slip an envelope with an LA address on it into your box, with a letter telling Buffy it's from your father. She'll never know the difference."

"I hate to rain on your parade, Spike, but there's no way she's going to buy that it's real if you leave a thousand dollars in cash in our mailbox."

Her scornful tone made him smile slightly.

"Yes, I know that. Thanks for your faith in me. We're not putting the money into your letterbox…we're putting a _letter_ into it." She raised her eyebrows at him and Spike added a trifle smugly, "A letter explaining that he's deposited the money into your bank account."

"And he'd know our bank account number because…"

"Because when you called him up and bitched about not getting any child support, you gave it to him."

"I did _what_—?" she began. Then, her eyes lit with comprehension. "That's…that's actually a really good idea."

"Yeah, well. I have them every once in a while." Spike turned back to his refrigerator and the trash bag. He meant it for a dismissive gesture, but Dawn didn't seem to take the hint. At any rate, she didn't leave.

"Did the motor go out and spoil everything?" she asked, watching him. He didn't even glance at her.

"No, it didn't go out."

"Then, why are you…?"

"Figured it might be a good idea to clean house," he explained reluctantly. "Get rid of the things that might…that would…"

_That would make Buffy look at me the way she did last night._

He couldn't say that, of course, but it was the reason. In fact, once the self-righteous anger at her friends had worn off…once he'd set into motion the plan to earn her some money…it was all he could think about, that look of disgust on her face when he spilled his blood on her. He didn't really blame her for it, although it still struck him as unfair that she should have no problem with Angel's drinking it, yet be disgusted when _he_ imbibed. But she wanted William; she wanted the man. If he was going to prove he could still be that for her, then the blood had to go. At the very least, it had to be kept out of her sight.

When Dawn realized what he was doing, she looked almost indignant.

"You mean you're getting rid of it because _Buffy_ doesn't like it?" she asked. "You've got to be kidding me. She's a vampire slayer; she sees blood all the time."

"Well, that's the point, isn't it?" he snapped. "She sees it all the time and she doesn't want to see it here. God knows, it isn't a great sacrifice on my part."

"What's not a great sacrifice? Giving up eating?" Her voice was cutting, though the anger was clearly not directed at the vampire in front of her.

"Don't be daft. I'll still eat; I just won't keep it here. It's not that hard."

"I guess that's why you're wearing those clothes then. For Buffy."

Spike looked down at himself: gray cargos, white t-shirt, and a blue button-down left open on top. He felt like a ponce, but it was what Buffy wanted. Right? For him to dress like this? She'd liked the polo shirt so much she'd taken it away with her, but he'd spilled blood on her while he was wearing his own clothes; he'd been a monster to her in his own clothes. If all it took for her to see him as a man was an empty refrigerator and an outfit from Old Navy…well, he wasn't about to complain.

Still, he felt himself squirm inwardly, embarrassed by Dawn's penetrating stare, embarrassed for her to see him like this. Unsure of when Buffy might come, he'd changed his clothes as soon as he woke up and hid them, along with his duster, in a cardboard box underneath the bed. Now, he wished he'd waited until after the Bit had gone before doing it.

"Just drop it," he said harshly, as he tied a knot in the top of the bulging trash bag. "It's none of your damned business."

"I just don't understand why you feel like you have to change for her," Dawn insisted. "She's not making any changes for you, is she? You like her just the way she is. So, why can't she be the same way with you?"

_Because, I've already changed,_ he wanted to shout. _Because, she fell in love with someone I don't know if I can be anymore. I've got to bloody try. Otherwise…_

He didn't want to think about otherwise.

Angry, now, he threw down the bag and turned on Dawn. "Have you ever been in love?"

She looked taken aback by his violent tone, by the blue eyes that were suddenly tinged with yellow. She hadn't expected him to be so angry.

"_Have you_?" he pressed, demanding an answer.

"No," she said softly. "I haven't."

"Well, then. That's why you don't understand."

* * *

* * *

Buffy just couldn't understand it. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't reconcile the photographs—the horror—with the man she had fallen in love with. Archer, of course, didn't come as a surprise. She'd read about it and, even before that, part of her had felt it was inevitable. In a way, she almost agreed with Spike: the man had deserved to be punished. Perhaps, not in that way. Of course, not in that way. But William had been confused and in pain…and angry…she could understand his reasoning; she could understand why he had done it.

She couldn't understand the women.

That afternoon, confused and exhausted after the first job interview she'd ever had, Buffy returned to her chair at the kitchen table—and to the stack of photographs that awaited her there. Inasmuch as she didn't want to look, she also couldn't stop herself. Had he really been so angry with her for leaving him? She knew anger could accompany grief; she'd experienced it firsthand and had been angry with her own mother for leaving her. But this? A century of torture and murder just because he was grieving? All the victims looked like her, and it made her shudder to think how much he must have hated her for leaving him, if he was able to do that.

Buffy was so lost in her own thoughts, her own grief, she didn't even hear the sound of Dawn's footsteps coming up behind her.

"How'd the job interview go?"

Trying not to appear startled by her sister's sudden appearance, Buffy answered slowly, "It went…well…it just went. I have no idea if she liked me or not; the woman said she would call in a couple of days to let me know what her decision was. If I ever hear from her again, I think I'll die of shock."

"It's always good to keep a positive attitude," Dawn said. Buffy surprised herself by grinning.

"Well, you know me," she answered. "Little Miss Optimism."

Dawn dropped into a chair next to her. "What are you doing anyway?"

"Oh," Buffy sighed. "Just…thinking. God knows, I have a lot to think about these days."

"That's for sure," Dawn agreed. "Anything in particular you're thinking of right now?" She smiled wryly. "Like maybe a certain sun-shy boyfriend?"

Buffy winced and Dawn's expression immediately changed to one of concern.

"What?" she asked. "Did something happen? Is something wrong?"

Buffy hadn't intended to tell Dawn about the Council's ultimatum, but after turning the matter over in her mind for almost nine hours straight, she felt as if she had to talk to someone or she would go mad. Because Dawn was certain to be sympathetic to Buffy's plight, she seemed the most obvious choice.

Except that Dawn _wasn't_ sympathetic when Buffy told her; she was angry.

"That's disgusting!" she said shrilly. "How could the Council be so slimy—and how could Giles let them? You're not seriously thinking about it—"

"Of course, I'm not thinking about it," Buffy answered, her defensive tone completely belying her words. Dawn's eyes narrowed.

"You are! I know you, Buffy. I can see it in your face. You're actually considering doing it…you're considering dropping Spike to get money from the Council."

"What the hell is going on with you and Spike?" Buffy flared. "Why are you so protective of him? You hated Angel—you didn't like Riley—"

"I liked Riley!" Dawn interrupted. "I thought he was great until he cheated on you with the undead prostitutes—"

"Okay, so you liked him. You certainly didn't latch onto him the way you have Spike, the vampire without a soul. I mean, look at all he's done! No wonder Giles was willing to listen to the Council!"

She shoved the folder across the table to Dawn, opening it up as she did so to reveal the topmost picture—a pretty blonde with a railroad spike through her throat.

Unlike Buffy, Dawn didn't even flinch when she was confronted with the graphic, bloody image. She glanced at it briefly, shoved the folder back at her sister, and said coolly, "Yeah, so?"

"You can't possibly mean that," Buffy said. "You can't really think that this—" she jabbed her finger at the picture "—is okay."

"Of course, I don't think it's okay," Dawn retorted. "It's evil and gross and wrong—and it also happened, like, a hundred years ago. Big deal."

"They didn't all happen a hundred years ago! One of those girls was killed right before he came to Sunnydale. Right before he came to kill _me_."

"So _what_, Buffy? You knew he was a vampire two days ago when you spent the night with him. So, now, you have photographic proof of it. Who cares? Angel killed and tortured and did everything Spike's done—but you still kept going back to him. You still trusted him. Because, he's changed. People change."

"How, though? How has Spike changed? Because he loves me? That doesn't make him different from before. That doesn't give him a soul. That doesn't make him—" She stopped.

"It doesn't make him _William_, you mean," said Dawn sarcastically. "God, Buffy. You are so dim. You expect him to behave just like he did a hundred years ago, just as if he'd never been turned. You've even got him thinking that he has to be exactly what you want him to be—that he has to be human—just to be with you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, he's throwing out all his blood and dressing like a frat-boy because he thinks that's what you want. You say he can't change, but look at how hard he's trying to!"

_He threw out his blood?_

The events of the previous night suddenly came rushing back, and Buffy's face grew hot as she thought about how she'd looked at him—how she'd felt about him—when he had accidentally spilled his blood on her. Like he was a monster, like he was everything Giles had accused him of being. The feeling hadn't lasted long, but she suddenly realized that he might have been aware of it, that it might have hurt him. Afterward, as sweet as he'd been to her…

_But he killed all those women because he was angry with me for leaving him. What if I leave him again? What if things don't work out and that chip in his head misfires? What then?_

Her emotions must have showed plainly on her face because when Dawn went on, her tone was much softer.

"Why can't you just accept what he is, Buffy? You care about him; I know you do. Just get over all the other stuff and let yourself be happy. It's about time you were."

Buffy nodded grimly.

_It's about time…_

_

* * *

_

* * *

It was much later when she arrived at his crypt. She could tell by the look on his face when she walked in the door that he hadn't expected her to come. It almost hurt her to see the way the shock faded from his blue eyes, the way it became relief and another emotion that could only be described as ecstasy.

Ecstasy, just because she was there.

"How…how'd it go today? The interview and all. Got a job yet?" His voice was soft, almost awkward, and when Buffy looked at him, she was startled to see that Dawn was right. He was dressed like a frat-boy, just as he had been on the night of their "stakeout" and his ill-fated attempt to prove that his feelings for her were genuine. Now, she knew they were.

"I don't want to talk about the interview," she said softly.

Spike nodded, clearly eager to keep the conversation in safe waters, to keep her happy. It hurt her again to see how hard he tried. Was Dawn telling the truth? Had he really thrown away his food supply just to please her? His eyes followed her when she walked to his refrigerator to check.

"What…?" he began.

Buffy shut the fridge door with a snap—it was empty, just as Dawn had said it would be. She spoke before he could finish his question.

"Giles showed them to me…the photographs of all those blond girls."

He looked confused.

"What blond girls?"

Had they really meant so little to him? She answered him slowly. "The ones you killed over the years; the ones you tortured…because of me."

Spike looked stricken, suddenly terrified. She knew why: he was afraid that she was going to leave him for it.

"I didn't torture them. They—they were already dead when I—"

"But you killed them, broke their necks or whatever, and did all those things to their bodies afterwards."

He nodded. What alternative did he have but to be honest?

"Were you really so angry with me?" Buffy's voice was rising, though not from rage. Her chest hurt and she could feel the threat of tears. She turned her back on him before adding, "They all looked like me. Did you really hate me so much for leaving?"

"I didn't hate you!" he burst out, fumbling, eager to explain. "I—I hated _them_. I hated them because they were there—they were there and you—you weren't. All I wanted was for you to be—"

His voice broke off, but Buffy didn't turn around to see why. There was a dagger resting on top of the refrigerator—the same one he'd dropped when she had first come to him a few days before. She toyed with it, pretending to be far calmer than she actually felt.

"I keep thinking about that," she said softly. "How angry you were. It didn't matter with whom…the results are the same. You were angry and people died because of it. If we broke up now—if you didn't have the chip—you would do it all over again."

"I wouldn't!" Now, he sounded angry. "Jesus Christ, Buffy. You act like I'm some kind of sodding animal who can't control himself. I told you—if you had been there, Drusilla's turning me wouldn't have made one damn bit of difference. I would have been good—I would have been anything you bloody wanted me to be. If you left me now, I sure as hell wouldn't go back to killing even if I could!"

"Why not?"

"Because, I wouldn't want to ruin my chances of getting you back!"

There was a rush of possessive satisfaction at the words, although she knew they weren't the right ones for him to say.

_Does it really matter though? If he's good, does it even matter why? Angel is good because of the soul…Spike is good because of me. Is it really all that different?_

She swallowed the lump in her throat, focused her gaze on the dagger in her hands—

_Can you really control yourself, Spike?_

—and then she ran the blade across the pad of her thumb.

Buffy could tell that he smelled the blood immediately by the way he shifted behind her. When she looked at him, he had his face to the wall, his shoulders tense and his hands clenched, reminding her so much of his former self her heart ached. He didn't even turn around when he heard her approach.

When she reached him, she put her right hand against the back of his head, her fingers twining in the short hair that was stiff with gel. She leaned up, kissed his earlobe, whispered, "William—look—"

He glanced over and she reached up with her left hand, dragging her injured thumb across his bottom lip, leaving a trail of blood.

She'd half-expected him to vamp, to bite her, to immediately lose his senses. Instead, he hesitated, blood on his mouth, face completely human and so upset it made her wonder if she'd done the right thing.

"It's okay," she said. She bit him on his neck, gently mimicking what he might have done to her. She murmured again, "It's all right."

The tip of his tongue came out, tentatively tasting what she'd given him. Although he still didn't change, she felt him harden against her leg; she heard the low moan that rumbled in his throat and didn't quite reach his lips.

_I guess he_ can _control himself,_ she thought and felt a shiver of pleasure run down her spine.

She pushed her streaming hand to his mouth, sucking in her breath as his cool tongue traced along her wrist and hand, cleaning up the line of blood that had snaked down from the wound. When he finally reached her thumb—when he drew it into his mouth and began to coax the blood from it with gentle swallows—she felt her stomach drop. Her free hand slid from his skull to his shoulder, clutching it to keep from falling when her knees began to shake. She felt almost dizzy with lust, a reaction she hadn't expected.

"See—" she gasped, grinding against him, rubbing his clothed erection with her hip. "I'm not asking you to be a human—I just want to you be—"

"What?"

"—mine."

That wasn't the word she meant to say—she meant to say _good_. But, somehow, once it was out, she couldn't bear to correct herself.

* * *

None of her friends doubted that Buffy would accept the Council's offer.

Secrecy never being a strong suit with the group, they all knew about Giles' visit with her and the ultimatum he had given. It was the favorite topic of conversation as they sat at the Magic Box's reading table the following afternoon, and each of them had their own private opinion about why Buffy would choose to abandon her relationship with Spike.

Willow assumed that Buffy would jump at the offer of money, the chance to catch up on all those bills. If she didn't do that soon, then foreclosure would be a real possibility, and she knew that Buffy would do anything to keep from losing her mother's house.

Xander thought it was only a matter of time before Buffy came to her senses about it all, and even though he hated the thought of her being in pain, he would feel relieved once it finally happened. Better that the vampire be shown doing something hurtful and disgusting now, while they were just getting involved, than wait until poor Buffy was even more vulnerable. God knew, he had already taken advantage of her enough as it was, both in the past and the present.

Giles was confident that Buffy was thinking seriously about what he had said to her and was considering the offer he had made. Whatever relationship she might have formed with William Hartley (and he didn't approve of even that), she must know that it was foolish to try to recapture it with Spike. He thought it best to give Buffy her space and wait patiently for her to come to him, safe and contrite and ready to be taken care of.

And, when the bell over the door rang to announce her arrival, it seemed that she had.

Buffy wasn't surprised to find them all gathered together. In fact, it was the reason she had decided to wait until so late in the evening to come. Willow and Tara were out of class; Xander's construction job was over for the day, and the shop's clientele had slowed to a trickle. She figured that if she was going to do this, she might as well do it right and save them all the trouble of gossiping about it afterward.

Still, she never expected it to be this hard, with all of them watching silently as she passed the table. The sheaf of printer paper clutched in her right hand felt limp and damp as her palms began to sweat. Like any good proprietor, Giles was standing at the cash register behind the glass display case. Buffy stopped in front of it, just across from him, and their eyes met.

Then, she threw the photographs of Spike's handiwork into her Watcher's face.

"Tell the Council I don't like being propositioned."

* * *


	57. Chapter FiftySix

**Chapter Fifty-Six**

All that evening, Spike lay in a sprawl atop the hard slab of the sarcophagus, his blue eyes fixed on the clouds of dust motes drifting near the stone supports of the cobwebbed ceiling. He was naked, his hair disheveled and his neck bruised, his lips stained the same faint red as the sunset sky outside. He hadn't set his feet on the floor since Buffy had left almost nine hours before; he hadn't eaten. He hadn't even moved. He'd done nothing but lie on his back, gazing upward. Though unsmiling, his swollen mouth held a vague suggestion of happiness, the bottom lip drooping, unneeded breath rasping over it with lifelike regularity. The long fingers of his left hand tangled in silky material of the underwear she'd left behind, but he didn't feel that any more than he actually saw the cracked ceiling on which his eyes were trained. He wasn't really there, wasn't really alone, and the passage of time meant nothing because it was still last night and _she_ was with him.

Even now, he could taste her blood in his mouth, sweeter than anything else in the world because it had been willingly given. There had been no temptation to take more than she offered. In fact, he had felt something akin to reluctance at taking anything at all, because she was his and what he felt for her was—and had always been—separate from that.

Still, she'd insisted, holding up her wrist for him to lick, pressing the ball of her thumb into his mouth and rubbing the wound gently across his tongue. He could hear her heartbeat quicken as he began to respond, and suddenly the scent of her arousal hung heavy on the air.

_I just want you to be mine_, she had said.

He _was_ hers. Didn't she know that yet? He had always been hers, had always been calling out for her, spilling tears and come onto his lonely bedclothes for want of her. Back then, she had been nameless, formless, nothing more than an indistinct bright blur in the otherwise monochrome landscape of his existence. Even so long ago as that, he had belonged to her.

Clumsily, he tried to tell her that, but before he could find the right words to explain she had drawn away. Her thumb had stopped bleeding and she pulled it gently from his slack mouth, pausing for just a nanosecond to caress his bottom lip. He hated even that slightest of retreats, but it didn't last. The next moment, her hands had slipped beneath the worn fabric of his blue Oxford, lifting it a little so that she could knead the tight muscles of his shoulders. Her mouth quivered a little as she asked him, "What on earth are you wearing?"

The amusement in her eyes made him uncertain. Did she like the change or not? Was she teasing him or testing him? His brow furrowed as he struggled to find a response that wouldn't get him into trouble.

"Thought you might like it," he said finally. The words were hushed, purposefully indistinct in case they turned out to be the wrong ones and would later need to be retracted. Buffy raised her eyebrows, smiled in a way that left him almost physically ill with the force of his adoration. Her fingers insinuated themselves further between the button-down and his t-shirt, sliding the sleeves of the former down his shoulders and arms, pushing a little more firmly when they threatened to catch on his wrists. When it was off, she tossed it over the back of a chair.

"Silly vampire. You really haven't changed much in the last hundred years, have you?" Her mouth was against his ear, brushing back and forth against the lobe.

Spike felt a rush of mingled pleasure and shame. He wanted her to know that he was the same man as before, but he didn't want her to think he was the same person. He'd been so stupid back then, so weak, nothing but a foil for bastards like Archer. As lovely as his time with her in London had been, part of him cringed at the thought that she had seen him thus: an inconsequential fool who had no idea how to please a woman. He didn't want her to see him as that fool now.

"Have you?" she asked again, making him realize that he had never answered her the first time. Slowly, he shook his head.

"I have, love. Hundred years and more—things happened—I did things—and I changed. I'm not—"

Her lips grazed his jaw, trailing words so low even he could hardly hear them. "Yes, you are. You've changed in all kinds of ways; you've been bad. I know that. But, in here—" she placed a hand over his unbeating heart "—you're exactly the same. You tried to tell me; I just wasn't ready to listen until now."

He swallowed. "Yeah. What does that—" he began, but she preempted the question.

"You don't have to dress like a reject from _Dawson's Creek_ to have me; you don't have to hide what you're eating. You can take the good out of who you've become…you can be yourself. You _are_ the same inside. It's just that before…before you were…innocent."

He shifted, uneasy and embarrassed to remember just how innocent he had been, but her voice dropped low, took on a soothing, sleepy quality that made his bones feel like jelly. She nuzzled the base of his throat and her next words hardly seemed to be her own.

"No wonder you went mad," she whispered, mouthing her way up the line of his throat until she found the sweet spot. "You were so trapped back then. Did you love me because I set you free? Because I touched you and let you out of the agony of being a gentleman?"

She put her hand to his agony, ever-present, and he drew a sharp breath. And it _was_ agony. It was endless. His desire for her was nothing like those fierce, fast couplings with Drusilla, the harried and often violent drive to achieve what was nothing more than a spasm of physical release. With Buffy, there was release but no relief. She was seawater to a thirsty man; she was opium to an addict, always leaving him wanting. Sex with her had little to do with the ultimate climax and everything to do with the road that led them there. It was the joining that mattered to him, her body locking with his, wrapped around him so tightly that for the moment, at least, he didn't have to worry about her slipping away. He would have felt the same sort of satisfaction had she let him crawl into her head, her heart. If he could have, he would have nestled into the soft bed of her temporal lobe or been held by the pulsing muscles of her right atrium. He would have become so deeply embedded that she couldn't ignore him or run away; he would have been part of her.

He felt the top button of his trousers pop free from its moorings and, drawn out of the reverie, he looked down. The fingers of her right hand had inched down into the loosened waistband, and her left hand cupped the nape of his neck. She kissed him on the edge of his chin, murmuring in a voice that was partly playful and mostly not: "I'm kind of surprised at you. I didn't think you could still hold back."

He couldn't hold back much longer. She was chiseling away at his self-control and the restraint was like torture. Her fingers rested on his pelvis an inch above the aching, needy flesh, but she wouldn't make the final descent. She kept kissing him, gnawing at that special spot on his neck, the first place her lips had ever touched him, and he couldn't bear it. With an apologetic moan, he lost control and shoved her backwards, pressing her down onto the solid stone lid of the sarcophagus.

_My love, my sweetheart, my treasure. Mine. Mine. Mine._

A dizzying rush of possessiveness—all the names he'd once uttered with such ease and couldn't even imagine calling her now, although in his heart he still felt it. He was obsessed with her and that couldn't possibly be good, but she was his and he had always been hers…and he just couldn't stop himself. He fumbled at her clothes with hands that were too eager for gentleness, scattering shirt-buttons across the stone, tearing the edge of a zipper from its seam. She didn't complain, only encouraged him by tugging his t-shirt up over his head, using her feet to push his trousers over his hipbones.

Finally, she was exposed and all his, and he kissed his way along her breastbone and her stomach…all the way down to the place that had been his undoing.

* * *

As Spike lay daydreaming in the pleasant silence of the retreating evening, Buffy was suffering the very unpleasant silence of disapproval as she stood in front of her friends in the Magic Box. For a long time after she made her declaration, none of them had spoken and she, perceiving the disbelieving stares at her back and the curt expression of paternal disappointment before her, wondered if perhaps she should just walk out. She retreated two steps and half-turned toward the door, but his deep voice stopped her.

"So, this is it," he said slowly, his eyes narrowing behind the glasses he then removed to clean with a ferociousness directed at her. "You choose Spike—a vampire, an unrepentant killer—over your calling and your own wellbeing."

"Yes," she said simply. "I do."

One of Giles' hands dropped to the edge of the display case, grasping it with so much force Buffy wondered if the glass would crack. It didn't.

"The things he has done to you, Buffy," he began in a careful voice that trembled on the brink of rage. "Think of the things he has done to all of us, but to _you_ in particular. The Order of Turaka—the Gem of Amara—even Adam—what would have happened if any of those schemes went according to his plans? Do you think you would be standing here with us now, debating the validity of his feelings?"

She flinched a little, knowing what he said was true. However, she knew things that Giles didn't; she knew that Spike would have never gotten that far, would never have done a single despicable act, if she had been standing in the cemetery the night he had risen. Moreover, she understood the anger that drove him, the confusion of seeing the face of someone he believed to be dead on someone he thought he wanted to kill. Whatever had gone through his mind in the original timeline, in this one, he'd been heartsick and uncertain, which might have accounted for the fact that none of his schemes ever did go according to plan. She also knew there was no point in trying to explain any of this to Giles.

"I'm not going to argue with you," she told him plainly. "He _is_ a vampire, and he _is_ unrepentant, and he _is_ a killer. How is that so different from Angel except for the soul? Which, I've got to tell you, doesn't seem to mean a whole lot these days. Definitely not as much as I was told it did. And maybe I'm the only moral compass Spike's got, but he _does_ have me and he wouldn't do anything to disappoint me. I trust him with that."

"You trust him," Giles echoed with a sneer. Buffy's face flushed with anger.

"I do. Giles, you told me that a vampire is just a demon that fills the empty shell of a corpse. You told me that the soul was the essence of the person and without it, that person ceased to exist at all, replaced by a thing with the same face and mannerisms and memories—but still just a _thing_. That was a lie!"

"Bloody right, it was a lie!" Giles retorted, his voice loud enough so the group at the reading table flinched. "What was I supposed to tell you, Buffy? Would it have made it easier for you to know that the murderers that came out of those coffins were your schoolmates? That Angel did do all those heinous acts in the distant—and decidedly not so distant—past. Would you really have wanted to know?"

Buffy started to answer, but his voice overrode her own.

"You want the truth, Buffy? Here it is: the man you consorted with in London became a bloodthirsty killer. He tortured his former acquaintances; he murdered the young women who reminded him of you, and he killed two slayers. You've seen the cruelty he's capable of, the lengths he will go to in order to satisfy his own base desires. Yet, you claim that you trust him?"

"What about _her_?" Buffy jabbed her finger in the direction of Anya, and she heard the collective gasp of surprise from the group at the table and the watcher at the counter. Anya, however, seemed unruffled even when Buffy's eyes found hers.

"How many people have you killed?" Buffy demanded. "How many lives have you ruined and people have you tormented? You didn't have to do anything you did—you had free will and you knew right from wrong. You enjoyed the things you did—you still enjoy the memory of them—and you're somehow considered better than Spike?"

"Buffy, this isn't about Anya." Although Xander jumped to his girlfriend's defense, his expression and tone seemed uncertain. For the first time, Buffy thought she saw something akin to understanding in his eyes.

"She's over a thousand years old!" she persisted, focusing her gaze on him now, as well as Anya. "Spike isn't even a hundred and fifty. You do the math and tell me whose tally of victims runs higher, and then you tell me why Anya is allowed to sit at that table with everyone else while Spike is considered so disgusting people are paying me to stay away from him!"

Xander's mouth was hanging open and even Anya appeared thoughtful, but neither of them had any reply for her. Buffy wanted to say more, but a sudden and overwhelming sense of weariness came over her, and the limbs that had previously shaken with nervousness, then anger, now trembled with fatigue. She felt almost dizzy with her triumph—and it _was_ a triumph just to be able to confront them this way—but the stress of the past two weeks had finally caught up with her. She'd slept fitfully, eaten very little, and been under constant emotional strain, and now, staring out into the bewildered faces of her friends, she marveled at her own exhaustion.

She would go home, she decided. She would not stay here and talk in circles with her friends or argue with Giles. She would have dinner, she would sleep for a few hours, and then she would go see Spike. Without another word to any of them, she turned on her heel and walked out the door.

When her form was no longer visible through the glass, the remaining five looked at each other.

"Well," Anya said finally, using the chipper voice that almost always preceded a divulgence of something terrible. "She has a point. I _hav_e killed a lot of people."

Spike had only just rolled out bed—or, at least, onto his feet—when his employer showed up. Although his modesty had taken a permanent holiday at roughly the same time as his soul, Spike felt relieved that he had at least some clothes on. He didn't trust the guy yet and, being as how he was a human, that made Spike pretty well helpless if he decided to try anything. Nakedness just emphasized that vulnerability and though he might not be wearing anything but a pair of threadbare black jeans, it was better than wearing nothing at all.

"Yeah?" he said briefly to the man who, as of yet, had said nothing. He searched his pockets for cigarettes but discovered two things: his pockets didn't contain cigarettes and he had forgotten to fasten the button on his jeans. The latter he ignored as a matter of little importance, but the former annoyed him. He began searching the tables and furniture for the misplaced carton, all the while keeping one ear cocked to the man at the door.

"I trust you're prepared to go to work?" the man asked.

"Sure. Why not?" Spike said indifferently. There was a crumpled pack of Marlboros in between the sofa cushions and he pounced on it, pulling out the desired cigarette with his teeth. The stranger offered him a light.

"You know what to do?" he asked, pocketing the lighter as Spike took his first much-needed hit of nicotine.

"Guess so. You did explain it all before. I've even got a good place in mind to get things going."

"Take me there," the man said shortly. Spike raised his eyebrows, the cigarette dangling from his lips as he began to assemble the rest of his outfit.

"We on a schedule?" he asked.

"In a manner of speaking. _Tempus neminem manet_, you know."

"_Nunc dimittis servum tuum_," Spike answered with a shrug. The man turned from the doorway then, and Spike quickly followed his retreating figure across the darkened cemetery. The top button of his jeans was still undone and he'd forgotten to lace his boots, but neither of those things diminished Spike's confidence or his mood. He moved in his customary swagger, blowing smoke rings at grave monuments as he passed them.

Not even once did it occur to him that he might not be doing the right thing.

* * *


	58. Chapter FiftySeven

**Chapter Fifty-Seven**

It was a long walk back to the cemetery, and, under other circumstances, Spike might have enjoyed it. The autumn air was still and cold, the silent woods and misty fields bathed in the faintly orange glow of a harvest moon; a century ago, he would have written a poem about it. Not now, though. He hardly even noticed the beauty around him because it was after two a.m. and reaching the crypt was the only thought in his mind.

The tasks outlined by the Dark Suit (whose name he still did not know) had taken much longer than Spike had anticipated and they hadn't been quite so simple. The delay had set his teeth on edge, but he'd said nothing about it, just as he'd said nothing about the blow to his head or the powerful shove into a wall that had left him with a limp in his left leg. No point in jeopardizing what still seemed like a golden opportunity, after all.

Golden but maybe not entirely perfect.

He gnawed on the inside of his cheek impatiently and then winced, carefully running his fingers over the gash that stretched the length of his cheekbone. His fingertips came away stained with blood and something else, something clear and tinged in yellow. His bottom lip was split—no chewing on that either—and the lower part of his left eye socket throbbed. Something was wrong with his hip—he didn't know what and he didn't want to—but it made him drag his left leg like the humpbacked accomplice in a horror film. None of it particularly bothered him; he'd been wounded plenty of times before and far worse than this. It was just that the limping put him even further behind, and she might have left already. And he had to—_had to_—see her.

The tightness in his chest finally began to relax as he passed through the cemetery gates, his boots slipping a little on the damp grass as he quickened his pace. His head throbbed and his hip screamed in protest with each footfall, but he was too focused on the ultimate goal to even notice it.

_Buffy. Buffy. Buffy. _

He smelled her before he saw her, caught her scent even before he wrenched open the crypt door. The vague sweetness of violets and the distinctive musky smell of her flesh sent a pleasant shiver down his spine, and he pressed the heel of his hand against the heavy iron door, leaning against it for a moment before pushing it open.

_Get a hold of yourself, you sodding idiot. _

A few slow, deep breaths and he thought he had. He didn't throw open the door, didn't rush in like some foolish, lovesick child. He kept his dignity.

But beneath the calm façade, his knees were shaking.

She was sitting on the armchair, her head tilted away from him and slightly bowed. She didn't startle at the sound of the door opening, didn't even turn, and he knew she must be too lost in her thoughts to have heard it. There was something small in her hands, something that she cradled as carefully as if she were holding a baby bird. Spike had to take a few steps forward to see what it was she held.

Her ring.

He stopped dead, suddenly afraid to move, to breathe, to break whatever spell it was that had caused her to touch it. He'd tried to give it to her once before, had pushed it into her hand and told her that it was hers, that it had always been hers, but she wouldn't take it. She hadn't been cruel about it, just pressed it back into his palm and didn't say a word. It had hurt him, but he hadn't said anything. Anyway, her eyes and her hands and her mouth had provided temporary relief, if no understanding as to why she felt she needed to decline the tribute he had carried for her for so long. He hadn't put it back into his pocket after that; he'd placed it beside the candles that lined the windowsill. Now, she was holding it.

His injured hip threatened to betray him and Spike quickly braced himself on the sarcophagus, knocking over a stack of books in the process. Buffy looked over at him sharply. Her eyes were cold, closed like doors, and Spike immediately knew that he had done something wrong; he also knew what it was.

Buffy pushed herself out of the chair and made her way to the door, dropping the ring-box into the pocket of his shirt as she passed him.

"I've got to get going. I'm getting up early to make Dawn breakfast before she goes to school, and I need to get some sleep."

Jesus Christ.

He followed her as quickly as his misused body would allow, offering an excuse in a shaky tone that attempted to mask his anger. After the night he'd had—after all the things he'd gone through for her—was a little bloody sympathy too much to ask?

Of course, Buffy had no idea where he'd been, or what he'd done, or that it had all been for her benefit. Nor had she noticed his injuries in the darkness of the crypt.

"You know that I don't have a lot of time; I told you I couldn't keep spending all night here. Is it so hard for you to set aside two hours in your busy schedule to wait for me?"

"I moved as fast as I could, love. Do you honestly think I'd go off just for the hell of it? Just to piss you off?" She had sped up, and Spike, gritting his teeth to keep from cursing, attempted to do the same.

The unevenness of his gait as he crunched across the fallen leaves at the edge of the cemetery finally made her turn.

"My God," she whispered. The glow of a security light allowed her to see him clearly for the first time, and she was visibly shocked by his injuries. "Spike, what in the world happened to you?" A nanosecond later, she was right in front of him, leaning up to touch his cheek, his eye, his mouth; examining each wound and moving so gently that it hardly even hurt.

"Got delayed," he answered a little bewildered by the abrupt turnabout. "I wasn't trying to—"

"Did something attack you?" Her fingertips grazed his jaw line and suddenly it became very hard for him to think.

"Well, yeah. Something did."

The answer was not very far from the truth, not so far that he felt ashamed of it. At any rate, she was touching him again, and her expression was sweet and more than a little bit concerned; he sure as hell wasn't going to jeopardize that with semantics.

"Vampires?"

"No…not vampires. Something bigger. Dunno exactly what it was, but I got the better of it eventually." He shrugged nonchalantly, his gaze trained on the slow slide of her hand down his chest and onto his wounded hipbone, which suddenly didn't seem so wounded after all.

"Spike, I'm so sorry. I thought—"

"Don't know how you could think that," he interrupted sullenly. "Knowing how I—how long I've—" He didn't finish.

"It was a stupid thought," she agreed with a humility that made him feel simultaneously satisfied and guilty. "And I behaved like a complete bitch."

Well, yes, she had…but he wasn't going to tell her that. Her voice was a little uneven and when he looked at her, Spike was alarmed to see that she looked almost on the verge of tears.

"Christ, pet. It's done now, and sure as hell not worth crying about."

Buffy cleared her throat and wiped at her eyes. To Spike's relief, when she withdrew her hand she didn't seem to be crying.

"Oh…it's not just that," she sighed. "It's everything. All the stuff at the Magic Box and then I got home to find another letter from the mortgage company. It's like they think I don't know I'm three months behind and it's necessary to remind me every week. There's this number I'm supposed to call…the number of some financial representative of theirs whose sole job is probably to threaten to take people's houses if they don't cough up their payments. I don't even have money for food, for God's sake, let alone three thousand dollars to shut them up."

"Money for food?" Spike echoed. Buffy looked sheepish.

"Well, I mean…there's some food. Willow and Tara bought some; it's not like we're starving."

"Nice of them to offer you some crumbs from their table," he said snidely. "Too bad they can't throw a little rent money your way."

"Be fair," she answered. "They don't have any more money than I do."

_Bitches don't have jobs, either,_ he thought savagely although he knew better than to say it aloud. His temper being what it was, pursuing that topic any further was probably not a good idea. Spike took a deep breath.

"You said something was happening at the Magic Box," he began slowly.

"I told them."

Her voice was soft enough he might not have heard right, but the shy and somewhat proud look on her face was unmistakable. The corner of his mouth twitched.

"You _what_?"

"I told them about us. I went to the Magic Box and told them everything. I—I told them that it didn't matter. That the girls in the pictures…and all the other people you…Well, I told them that those people don't matter, that who you were before isn't important now because—"

Comprehension dawned and he stared at her.

"It was the Watcher wasn't it? He gave you those photographs." She nodded and a fierce wave of anger washed over him. "Son of a bitch! That hypocritical bastard, he—"

"You idiot," Buffy cut in impatiently. "Listen to what I'm saying! _It doesn't matter._ They all know about it now, and I chose you."

The enormity of it wasn't lost on him and, once again, he found himself speechless. He stood dumbly, amazed by the rapid shift in her mood, the way she smiled at him almost playfully as she wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Poor boy, you're bleeding all over the place."

Poor boy? Spike wasn't sure if the shiver of pleasure he felt was an appropriate reaction to have—it certainly didn't seem like a label that a vampire should appreciate—but he didn't give the matter too much thought. Her mouth grazed over the swollen, bruised flesh and the cuts that crisscrossed it. Even the slightest pressure hurt, but it was her mouth, her touch, and she might as well have had her hands down his trousers; it all had the same effect.

"So, what happened anyway?" she whispered against his jaw.

"Nothing important."

Spike braced himself, but she didn't pursue that line of questioning any further. Perhaps, she didn't really want to know; maybe she sensed that it was better that she not.

The ring-box in his shirt pocket pressed into both their chests as she leaned against him. She rubbed at it as if she were caressing his heart, and he knew it was her way of apologizing for using it to hurt him. He sighed, his eyelids drooping.

"It belongs to you, you know." His voice was low, weary and content, almost a mumble. "Told you before that it's yours. You should…have it. Even if you don't want to…"

The rest of the sentence remained unspoken, although he could see that she understood what he meant. She glanced from the box to his face, her expression uncertain.

"Thank you," she whispered finally and dipped her hand into his pocket. She didn't open it, just tucked it into her jacket. Spike had figured she would choose not to wear it, but it gave him no pleasure to be proven right.

He swallowed.

"You're welcome."

There was a moment of awkwardness after that, but it didn't last. Buffy rested her cheek against his chest and sighed, clouding the air with warmth and the scent of peppermint.

"I really do have to go," she said regretfully. "I've been neglecting Dawn a lot lately and I want to make it up to her. I thought that if I'm there to make her breakfast before she goes to school in the morning, and there when she gets home in the afternoon, then it would almost be like…"

"Like your mum was still alive?" he suggested.

"Well, as much as it can be anyway."

Spike nodded. "Guess she'd like that…to spend time with you. They left her pretty much to her own devices while you were away, I think. It's why she was so quick to forgive yours truly for his past indiscretions. She was lonely."

Nothing in his bland expression would have suggested the disappointment he felt, the jealousy. As much as he loved the Bit, he would have felt no compunction about cutting into her quality time with her sister. It had been a hellish night all around and he didn't want to let her go.

"I thought…" Buffy began as she carefully extricated herself from his embrace. "I thought that maybe you could come with me. If you want to, I mean. If you'd like to…"

Like to? There was nothing he would enjoy more than going to her house and flaunting their relationship before her bigoted, stupid friends. But he reluctantly dismissed the idea. If he went with her, it would be with the understanding that he would stay with her. Maybe all day. Doing that would cause all his other plans to unravel and, judging from what she'd said tonight, time was running short. Once again, his own personal comfort would have to be sacrificed in order to ensure hers.

So, Spike heaved a sigh to let the universe know how unhappy he was and then gently declined her offer.

"Can't right now, love. I've got to stop here a bit before making another trek across town. Got a couple of bones might need sorting out. Give me a few hours to rest, yeah?"

Buffy didn't seem put out by the request, nor did she ask him for a timeframe in which he might appear. If she had, he thought he could have predicted it with fair accuracy. After all, the Sunnydale Regional Bank opened its doors at nine o'clock.

* * *

At the bank, they looked at him suspiciously.

It was annoying, but Spike tried to view it objectively. He'd shown up a bare five minutes after the employees unlocked the door—had even brushed past a couple of stragglers on his way inside. Spike had been worried about his blanket. He knew he couldn't show up with his head under a piece of ragged wool; they'd probably call the police. The day was overcast and cool, with a rare threat of rain. The clouds helped some but certainly didn't guarantee him any real safety, so he had spent a couple of hours rummaging through the miscellaneous junk he'd gleaned from the dump over the past few months, hoping to assemble some type of armor against the daylight. There weren't a lot of clothes to pick from, but he did his best with a black broad-brimmed leather fedora, aviator sunglasses, and his duster; the rain meant he could also carry an umbrella, which offered extra protection. At any rate, he managed to arrive at his destination without catching fire.

Now, the bitch at the reception desk was staring at him as if he had just descended from a flying saucer. He ignored her and made his way to the nearest teller.

"Yes, sir?" the teller asked, taking a careful inventory of his outfit. One hand slipped from her desktop and disappeared from view; Spike wondered if she had put it on the emergency buzzer in case he decided to pull a gun on her.

If only things were that easy.

He plucked a blank deposit slip from the stack by his elbow and scrawled the account number Dawn had given him across the bottom. At first, he'd worried that he would have to sign it, because forging a signature he'd never even seen would be impossible, but luckily the bank didn't require a name. He shoved the slip across the counter to the teller.

Her eyebrows rose as she read it.

"I think you wrote the amount in the wrong slot, sir."

"No, I didn't," he snapped, digging into the pocket of his duster. The teller's eyes widened when he began to count out his money, fifty crisp one hundred dollar bills, which he then shoved across the counter to her.

Suspicious now, the teller counted the bills, drawing a line across each one with a yellow-tipped marker to see if they were genuine. Spike had considered the possibility himself and had wondered what he would do if they turned out to be counterfeit. Beat the guy's arse, of course. But what else? Buffy needed real money and fast. He peered across the desk, restlessly bobbing on his heels until the teller had proven all the bills to be authentic.

The woman seemed surprised, but she printed out a receipt for him and thanked him in the most insincere tone possible. Spike pocketed his receipt, displayed two fingers at the receptionist on the way to the door, and then exited the building with an overwhelming sense of relief.

The public library was Spike's next stop. When he stepped inside, the librarians looked at him with the same suspicion as had the bank tellers, but it didn't bother him because he didn't have to interact with them. There were computers in the back of the room and he used one to type up a letter, keeping it simple and fairly short to avoid arousing suspicion. Next stop: the post office for an envelope and stamp. Not that he actually intended to mail the thing, of course, but he had to make if look as if he had. He figured if Buffy noticed that the post office hadn't branded the stamp, she would just assume the employees were incompetent idiots; but he did dog-ear the envelope and rubbed a few smudges of dirt across it to make it look as if its journey to her mailbox had been an arduous one.

Then, finally, he could go to his girl.

* * *

Buffy should have known better than to attempt something as ambitious as pancakes on her first day as a chef. She had catalogued all the food in the pantry the day before and perused several of Joyce's cookbooks (all with crisp pages and stiff spines; her mother hadn't been much of a cook either) until she found one that looked simple enough. There were only six steps involved, but somehow it all went wrong: the batter was lumpy and the butter scorched when she used it to grease the skillet. The bowl tipped and she accidentally poured twice the amount she should have into the pan, and then none of the oddly shaped flapjacks would cook right, burning on the outside while still oozing in the middle. When she tried to flip them, she overestimated her own strength and threw one into the hood above the stove. In the end, she and Dawn ate Lucky Charms for breakfast.

She was still trying to scrape dried batter off the walls when the front door banged open.

Her immediate thought was of Spike. Although he hadn't given her an exact time, she had a feeling he would come early. She certainly didn't expect Giles or one of her friends. Tara and Willow were avoiding her, tiptoeing through the house and leaving for their classes without saying goodbye. Giles was probably at the Magic Box, dusting inventory and gnashing his teeth; Anya was counting money and saying things that were completely inappropriate. And Xander—

Well, she wasn't expecting him, either, and it came as quite a shock when she stepped into the foyer and found him kneeling at the foot of the staircase. He jumped slightly when she said his name.

"Sorry," he said, letting go of the measuring tape in his hand and letting it snap back into its case. "I didn't hear you walk in."

"What're you doing?" She almost added the word "here," but she was afraid it would sound accusatory. After the scene in the Magic Box the night before, Buffy certainly didn't want to risk losing the civility between them now.

"Oh, well…" Xander stood up and motioned vaguely at the newel post. "Willow told me it was getting loose. I checked and there's a crack running up the back side, so I thought I'd help you guys out and replace it. I don't have to be at the jobsite until eleven, so I came by to take some measurements. Maybe on Saturday I can…" His voice trailed away.

Buffy gaped at him. As far as she was concerned, they hadn't parted on the best of terms the night before; it seemed odd that he would show up at her house the very next morning to make repairs. Then, she noticed the look on his face, shy and apologetic, and she realized that the carpentry work was just his way of trying to make amends.

"Do you understand now?" she asked him. He flushed.

"Not exactly. I mean, the overlooking his past thing I can see. Like you said, I've done it myself, with Anya. It's just the being in love with Spike…when you consider all the things he's done to you…" Buffy's face clouded and he added quickly, "But the why isn't really important—it's none of my business—and—and I'm your friend. I guess I couldn't really call myself one if I wasn't willing to support you."

"No, you couldn't," Buffy answered. She was still stunned. Of all her friends, she had assumed Xander would be the most disapproving. He had never liked her relationship with Angel—even before it had proven to be a liability—and in the eyes of pretty much everyone, Spike was a lot worse. She had expected to receive nothing but snide comments from Xander for a long time.

On an impulse, she threw her arms around him.

"You're a good friend."

Xander awkwardly returned her hug, forgetting that he was holding the tape measure and patting her back with that hand. He started to respond, but at that moment the front door was thrown open a second time. Buffy glanced over Xander's shoulder.

It was Spike and he was wearing what was possibly the strangest outfit in the history of clothing.

"Well, looks like I walked in on a Hallmark moment," Spike said dryly. He pushed the mirrored sunglasses up on his forehead and added, "You want I should wait outside 'til you're finished?"

A look of annoyance crossed Xander's face, but he kept his voice even when he answered. "Hi, Spike. I was just on my way out." The words were strained but polite. When Xander bent down to gather his tools, Spike shot Buffy a look of puzzlement; he wasn't used to having her friends speak to him as if he were a human being.

She shrugged.

"Xander's going to fix the support post on the stairway and he was measuring it to see what kind of supplies to get."

Spike walked into the foyer, throwing his hat, umbrella, and sunglasses onto the decorative table by the door and shrugging out of his coat.

"Getting wood for you, is he? Well, isn't that all manly and thoughtful?"

"_Spike_." Buffy whispered his name in a warning tone.

"What?" Spike's expression was sulky and not at all contrite.

"It's all right," Xander cut in, ostensibly addressing them both, though his eyes were trained on Buffy. "I was just leaving anyway. You guys just do…uh…whatever it is you do."

Buffy waited until the door closed behind him, then she turned to Spike in exasperation. "What the hell was that all about? Xander actually came by to apologize for being so judgmental; he gets it now and he's probably the only one who isn't planning to make a huge issue out of it. Why did you have to behave like an ass? You're going to make everything worse…"

Spike just looked back at her, his blue eyes as wide and innocent as they had been back in London. He waited politely until she had finished berating him, and then he pulled a thin sheaf of crumpled envelopes from the back pocket of his jeans.

"I grabbed your post out of the letter box on my way in."

* * *


	59. Chapter FiftyEight

**Chapter Fifty-Eight**

"You got my mail," Buffy echoed slowly. An expression of utter and almost comical confusion replaced the look of token anger that had been there before, and Spike grinned, more than a little pleased with himself. He extended his arm, shoving the envelopes nearer to her.

"That so surprising to you? I was raised to be a proper English gentleman, after all, and that's what proper gentlemen do. Fetch the mail, empty the rubbish bin, pay the—"

He stopped abruptly, silently cursing himself for almost giving it away. Luckily, Buffy didn't even seem to be listening. She took the envelopes from him and tossed them onto the small table next to the door.

"You are very strange," she told him. "And you look like utter hell."

"Yeah?" Spike looked down at himself, but he couldn't find anything particularly offensive about his appearance. Having removed the unusual accessories he'd donned for his trip to the bank, he was wearing his customary combination of black jeans and a black t-shirt with a collared shirt worn unbuttoned over it; however, this time, the color of the shirt was not the usual red, but very dark blue. He'd tossed his duster over the staircase balustrade; she wasn't even looking at it, so that couldn't be what bothered her.

Then, she gently touched his wounded cheekbone. "God, Spike. You've got dried blood all down the side of your face."

Huh. Maybe that was why they looked at him so oddly at the bank. He'd known it couldn't be the clothing. Humans wore that kind of odd-fish type shit all the time.

He shrugged. "Guess there are some drawbacks to not having a reflection after all."

As casual as his reply was, Spike's mind was hardly on the conversation at hand. His eyes slid to the table, the wrinkled letters on top of it. Briefly, he considered drawing her attention to them, telling her that she should open them because sometimes mail contained something important. But that would be too obvious and he wasn't thick enough to actually attempt it. Instead, he just glared at the table, hoping to pull her gaze to it by the power of suggestion.

It didn't work. Buffy's eyes were on him, and it wasn't long before her hands were as well, making trails of gooseflesh along his nape with her fingernails. She nibbled his jaw, carefully avoiding the flecks of blood that had dried there; she kissed his blackened, puffy eyelids. She made him forget all about his plan.

"Miss me did you?" The words came out low and a little strained; they made her smile.

"Are you surprised?" she asked, indirectly answering Spike's question with her own.

"Little bit," Spike confessed. He traced his fingers across her collarbone, following the neckline of her shirt. He added, "Was a time when you couldn't wait to be rid of me."

"Yeah, well. Once, there was a time when you couldn't wait to kill me."

He flinched a little at her words, although he knew she meant no harm by them. Buffy noticed and immediately became apologetic.

"I wasn't trying to be hurtful or resentful or anything," she said softly. "I tried to do the same thing to you. It was just instinct and we didn't know any better. It's what slayers and vampires do."

He pulled away from her, leaning on the cracked support post at the foot of the stairs so that he didn't have to put more weight on his still-injured hip than was necessary. "It's different with me though," he insisted. "You didn't have any memory of London until a few weeks ago when you came back from it. But for me…I should have known…"

Buffy put a hand on his arm and her eyes were full of sympathy when she asked, "Why didn't you know, Spike? Why didn't you recognize me?"

"I did," he answered hoarsely. "I did. It was just that I didn't actually _know_; I kept thinking that I must have been imagining it all. I didn't even consider the possibility of time travel. For a little while, I thought that you were a reincarnation of _her_, but I hated myself for thinking it. It seemed stupid and disloyal. I wanted to blot it out, so I…"

"Tried that much harder to kill me," she finished. But Spike shook his head.

"Wanted to kill you that much more, I reckon, but every time I tried I found that I couldn't follow through with it. Couldn't muster up the desire to really do it. Had you more than once, remember? Had you by the throat with the gem of Amara; let you go. Set the Order of Turaka on you; called them off. Helped you save the bloody world…and even before all that…on that first Halloween night I—" He stopped short.

Buffy cocked her head.

"What about Halloween night?" she asked. Her own memories of that night—and all the nights before and since—had not been altered, and she couldn't help but wonder what her Victorian adventure had done to change things between them. However, whatever it was, Spike wouldn't say.

"How the bleeding hell can I expect you to forgive me for all the shit I put you through?" he asked instead. Then, he added accusingly, "All the shit _you_ put _me_ through. Why did you have to lie to me?"

"I was trying to protect you. You were so innocent and—and I didn't want to change that. I thought that as long as it had been, Willow would have given up trying to bring me back, or at least found that she wasn't able to do it. If I had known what would happen…"

"You should have told me anyway," he insisted.

"Would it really have made a difference if you'd known?"

"Of course it would have. Jesus! If I'd known where you'd come from—if I'd known where—when—you'd go back to—I would have got myself vamped just to wait for you; I would've known you when I first saw you as a slayer. I wouldn't have tricked myself into believing—"

"You're telling me that you would have waited all that time, alone, and kept yourself from doing all the things a vampire wants to do? You wouldn't have hunted for food—or for fun—you wouldn't have killed two slayers—"

"Damn right I wouldn't have!" he snapped. "Hundred years of misery isn't such a long stretch when you've got something to look forward to at the end of it. If I'd known I would see _you_ at the end of it, I wouldn't have done anything to cock it up. Dru could have gone to hell for all I care."

The tirade ended as abruptly as it had begun, and it was followed by a long, uneasy silence. Spike shifted against the newel post and then grimaced. He had walked too far that morning and it was starting to catch up with him. Or, at least with his hip.

Buffy was watching him carefully. "Spike, are you okay?"

"Just a little sore." He laughed shortly. "Bastard got me good."

"Your leg?"

Spike shook his head and motioned to his left hip. When Buffy touched it a moment later, he yelped.

"Sorry, sorry," she said, yanking her hand away. "Is it broken?"

"Don't think so…maybe cracked a little. I don't know. It'll mend."

"Can you walk?"

He rolled his eyes and Buffy laughed at her mistake.

"Yeah, that was a stupid question; you walked here. Can you make it down the hallway?"

While not exactly thrilled at the prospect, Spike nodded.

Buffy moved closer and gently tugged his fist from the post.

"C'mon then," she said. "Let's get you cleaned up."

* * *

He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be petted, to have someone take care of him. He'd almost forgotten how good it felt.

He followed Buffy down the hallway to the bathroom. She said that she wished she could take him to the one upstairs. It was larger and had a tub; the one downstairs just had a shower cubical. If she had taken him to the master bath, he could have had a soak in warm water. But he was in no condition to climb the stairs and she didn't want to risk making his injuries even worse. It didn't bother Spike. Bubble baths didn't really interest him anyway; too poncy.

Buffy sat him down on the lid of a sturdy wicker clothes hamper, directing him to prop his feet on the toilet seat across from it in order to take some of the pressure off his injured hip. He submitted to her orders without complaint, his eyes following her as she grabbed a pack of cotton balls and a small bottle from the medicine cabinet above the sink. Her hair fell across his face when she leaned over him and she brushed it back impatiently, tucking it behind her ear. She smelled so good it made him shiver.

When she pressed a wet cotton ball to the side of his face, he let out a yelp.

"What the hell, Slayer? That fucking hurts!"

"Don't be such a baby," she told him, clearly amused. "I once dumped a pipe organ on your head and left you to burn to death in a fiery church; you can totally deal with a little antiseptic wash."

He grinned a little at that and then sat quietly as she cleaned his wounds, which were still packed with grime and fluid because he didn't believe in tending to injuries.

"Should I put ointment on it, do you think?" she asked when she was finished. "Or, gauze and tape?"

The question made him snort. "You do understand that I'm a vampire now, right? If I had a little blood in me, most of this would clear up by the afternoon. When I go home tonight, I'll—"

"That reminds me!" Buffy exclaimed as she shoved the supplies back into the cabinet. "I have blood."

He scowled at her. "I'm not biting you; I'm not going to take your blood. The other night was—"

"Don't be stupid," she interrupted. "Not _my_ blood. Duck's blood. I went to the butcher this morning and he sells it for some kind of nasty soup people make. It might taste better than pig's."

"Probably more expensive, too. You shouldn't have spent your money on me, pet."

The corners of her mouth quirked up. "Actually, I didn't. Willow keeps an emergency twenty-dollar bill in a box with her spell supplies. I, uh, borrowed it."

He stared at her in surprise. Buffy had always been so disgustingly good. Could it be that he was having a positive influence on her? Pleased by the idea, he asked her playfully, "Aww, honey…you stole for me?"

"Let's just say I grabbed a little rent money," she answered.

"Twenty dollars for eight months? You must be running a sodding ghetto."

"Pretty much."

She led him to the living room, but he didn't want to sit. He wanted to be with her, to touch her. She pushed him down onto the couch, trying very hard not to disturb his various injuries in the process. Which didn't exactly work, of course, but he appreciated the effort.

Ignoring the quick dart of pain that shot through his leg when his weight dropped against the cushions, Spike stubbornly tried to pull Buffy onto his lap. He only got her down far enough for him to nuzzle her temple, and then she pulled away.

"Food now, that kind of thing later," she told him and disappeared into the kitchen.

When she came back, she had an icepack as well as the blood, and although Spike rolled his eyes, she stubbornly insisted that he use it.

He downed the blood in one swallow.

"There's no point in the ice, Buffy. You shouldn't even have bothered. The blood will take care of it all."

"The blood isn't going to make the swelling immediately go away," she argued. "And since you can't use a mirror, I feel obligated to tell you that you look like the elephant man's uglier cousin right now. Here—" Buffy dropped down beside him "—I'll even hold it on for you. Now, you don't have a single excuse."

Nestling into the corner of the couch, Buffy angled her body toward him so that he could stretch out, her knees on either side of his torso and his back against her chest.

Predictably, he chose that very moment to decide the ice was not such a bad idea after all. He dropped his head back to rest the base of his skull in the hollow of her shoulder. The soft skin of her forearm brushed the side of his face as she settled the ice against his cheek, and he leaned into it even though it hurt. He wanted to kiss her; he wanted to roll over and push her into the sofa cushions. He wanted to undress her, to have her right there on the sofa in the afternoon so that God and everybody (most importantly her roommates) could see them. But something told him it was useless even to try.

"Remember the last time I played nurse for you?" Buffy asked suddenly. "In the parlor the night you got back from Wiltshire? You made me stop when I touched you like this." And she placed the palm of her free hand flat on his chest, gently rubbing over the unbeating heart

Actually, what Spike remembered was stopping her not because she touched him, but because the mere proximity and position of her body had made him fantasize about having her fellate him, and he'd nearly come in his trousers right in front of her. But there was no reason to burden her with details.

After it became clear that he wasn't going to say anything, Buffy spoke again.

"Tell me what it was like when I disappeared…when you were turned. Tell me what happened."

"I tried to before and you didn't want any part of it," he answered mutinously.

"Just one of the many dumb things I've done when it comes to you," she told him disarmingly. "But I don't want to be dumb anymore; I want to understand how you went from that…to this." She shrugged. "I guess what I'm really saying is that I want to know you as well as you know me."

Did he know her? She had lied to him in London, lied about her past and her future, lied about her calling, lied about everything. Yet, at the same time, she'd opened up to him in a way he knew she never had anyone else. Angel was a ponce and had treated her like a child, never encouraging any real emotional intimacy; Riley had been too busy competing with her to worry about what made her tick. As for himself—

He knew everything she wouldn't confide to the others.

Because of that, Spike told her. He told her everything, all the things that had warped him and all the things that hadn't. He finally managed to explain about his mother, about Dru and the servants, and about letting Matthew go. He told her about leaving Yorkshire in search of the Slayer and he told her about Emiliana, how pretty she was and how young. He had wanted to kill her because he thought she deserved to be killed by someone who admired her so much, someone who would celebrate the death of a slayer but still mourn the loss of a worthy opponent.

But he didn't tell her about Angelus.

He considered it, of course. In a way, it would have been a relief to rage about it and make her hate Angel as much as he did. Then, he thought about her relationship with his grandsire, how she'd been so young and he had been her first love. Spike understood first love, how it wasn't really love but an infatuation that mimicked it. Even if she now realized how hollow those feelings had been, Spike knew she still harbored a wistful fondness for them. He wasn't jealous of the memories, not anymore, and he didn't want to take them away from her. He didn't want her to be hurt any more than she already had been. So, he kept his mouth shut about it, didn't tell her that Angelus had taken him up against the wall and laughed about it afterwards; he didn't mention Angelus at all.

She knew the story of how he'd killed Nikki in New York, so he ended it there. The things that happened once he had met her again were impossible to put into words, and he refused even to try. His memories of that time were sharp but confusing, and there were quite a bit of them he wanted to keep secret.

Buffy let him talk. She listened to all the evil things he had done and all the good things he hadn't been able to stop himself from doing, even when he wanted to. During it all, she never said a single word and he realized that, for the first time, she truly understood.

* * *

Whatever Dawn was expecting to see when she walked into her house that afternoon, it certainly wasn't this.

Actually, she was just relieved to find that Buffy was not in the kitchen. Not that she hadn't appreciated the effort at breakfast, but it all was fruitless anyway and the smell of burned pancake clung to her clothes for the rest of the day. Maybe if Buffy had put her housewifely ambitions aside, they could order a pizza.

Once she discovered just what her sister _was_ up to, Dawn knew she was in the clear.

Because, there was her emotionally underdeveloped sister sitting in the living room, watching a rerun of _E! True Hollywood Story_ while the big, bad William the Bloody stretched across the sofa with his head on her lap. Although her attention seemed focused on the television, Buffy's hands were idly playing in Spike's hair, stroking it back from his forehead and twining his gel-stiffened curls around her fingers. For his part, Spike looked half-asleep, his eyes glazed and nearly shut, his gaze trained on nothing at all. If he were a cat, Dawn was sure he would have been purring.

"Wow, did I just fall through a rabbit hole or what?" she asked cheerfully.

Spike barely even turned his head as Dawn walked into the room, and his drowsy expression didn't change at all but for a languid smile that appeared at the corners of his bruised and swollen mouth. Buffy, however, suddenly looked shy. She carefully slid out from underneath Spike, one hand lingering on his head for a moment afterward, as if to apologize for disturbing him.

"You—you're home early," she said awkwardly. "Was it a nice day?"

"It's after four o'clock," Dawn answered, trying not to giggle. "And since you asked, it was a school day; when are they ever nice?"

"Regular little Rhodes Scholar, ain't she?" Spike asked no one in particular as he slowly pulled himself into a sitting position.

"I'll bet you were only one because they beat you if you didn't make the grade," Dawn retorted. "We read about the Victorians in my history class and they were totally messed up people."

"Totally," Spike replied, mimicking her childish tone even as he agreed with her.

"I guess you're hungry," Buffy said resentfully, looking at Dawn. "What'll I fix for dinner?"

"Not pancakes," Dawn said quickly. Spike snorted from the sofa. "Actually, I was thinking about pizza. Dominos is running a really good deal…"

"We don't have money for—" Buffy began. Then, Spike dug into his pocket and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. He wadded it into a ball and chucked it at Dawn's head.

"Get whatever you want, Bit."

Dawn looked at Buffy questioningly; she was staring at Spike with something akin to embarrassment.

"We can't take your money, Spike."

His temper flared at that. "For Christ's sake, Buffy. It's fifty dollars I got from playing poker; it isn't like I had to mow lawns to get it. Bet you let Mr. White Bread pay for dinner once in a while, but God forbid I should do it."

Buffy stared at him, clearly stunned, and Dawn braced herself for an argument. Instead, she saw her sister brush a hand along Spike's shoulder—a gesture so full of affection it was almost uncomfortable to witness.

"We have a menu around here somewhere," she said. "I'll see if I can find it."

The moment Buffy was out of earshot, Dawn pounced on Spike.

"What the heck happened to you?" she hissed. "You look like you've been through a meat grinder."

"It's nothing," he answered gruffly. "First night's always the hardest, that's all."

Her eyes widened. "You're not going to go back?"

"Unless you've found another way to make money, I sure as hell am. Do you want to see her taking tickets in a rundown theater or working as a waitress at some filthy diner? She's too good for that, and I'm going to see to it that she never has to do it." He softened. "Anyway, it won't be so bad tonight. No fisticuffs; no real chance of injury. And the blood your sis gave me has helped plenty; I'll be fine by the time I leave here."

"Yeah, but don't you think…" Dawn began. Spike immediately cut her off.

"In fact, don't let me forget and stay longer than twelve o'clock tonight. I've got to meet him at half past."

"Him who?"

"Never mind that." He paused. "Did you check the letter box?"

Proud of herself for remembering, Dawn dipped into her jacket pocket and showed him the envelopes.

"Good," he said and waved toward the foyer table. "She dumped the other letters over there without even looking at them, so you can add those to the stack."

"Other letters?"

"Well, on my way out of the post office, I saw a big bank of boxes…the rental boxes, you know? It wasn't too hard to jack a couple of letters from them."

"You _stole_ mail?"

"Well, I had to do something, didn't I? Couldn't just hand her the one letter and expect her to buy it. Anyway, don't go all self-righteous on me; I only took the junk about home loans and pre-approved credit cards...the ones addressed to 'occupant.' Did find a couple of promising-looking birthday cards; they might easily have gotten us a bit of extra pocket money. But I figured you wouldn't like that."

"What would you have done if Willow or Tara had checked the mailbox before me?" Dawn asked. "They would have realized that the mail hadn't actually been delivered this morning; they would have known you lied."

He shrugged, completely unconcerned with what-ifs.

"She didn't think it was weird that the mailman came by this morning instead of lunchtime like he usually does?"

"Bit, she didn't give a damn. No one pays attention to that shit except for anal-compulsive lay-abouts who've got nothing else to do. Now, go and do what I said before she gets back."

Obediently, Dawn went out to the foyer and put the new mail at the bottom of the stack. She was just turning around when Buffy appeared behind her.

"Looking through the mail?"

"Uh…yeah…" Dawn thought on her feet. "I sent away for a picture of Johnny Depp, like, _months_ ago and I haven't heard back yet. I thought they'd send me my money back at least."

"That's what you get for ordering things out of the back of _Tiger Beat_," Buffy answered. She picked up the letters and began rifling through them, asking as she did, "Did we get anything besides junk and bills?"

"Dunno. I was just interested in my photograph." Dawn tried to feign disinterest but it was hard not to be nervous. Her stomach clenched as Buffy finally found the white envelope from Spike; behind her, she could hear him twisting around toward the back of the sofa so he could watch.

"Oh, my God."

"What?" Dawn asked, breaking out into a sweat. She knew that if Buffy didn't buy into this game then both she and Spike were in big trouble. She watched Buffy's face carefully as she read the letter.

"Oh, my God. Dawn!"

Buffy's voice was almost a shout and Dawn leapt backward as if to avoid a blow. "What?"

"He sent us money. He actually sent us money!"

"Who?"

Buffy waved the letter under her nose. "You know damn well who. He says you called up his secretary and screamed at her until you got his number at some resort. He said that"—she choked a little on the next words—"you demanded money from him. You threatened to sue him!"

Wow, Spike was creative. Dawn glanced over her shoulder at him and saw that he was smiling at her. Clearly, he had enjoyed casting her in the role of a temperamental brat. She turned back to Buffy and tried hard not to laugh as she said with a shrug, "Well, we need the money, don't we?"

"He sent us five thousand dollars." Buffy's voice dropped to a whisper. "He put it straight into our checking account; I've got the deposit receipt right here. Can you believe that? All that money. We can pay the mortgage; we can make sure the utilities get caught up. I don't have to keep w—worrying—" Her words ended in a single, strangled sob.

Like a shot, Spike was off the sofa. He crossed to the foyer so quickly that it was amazing he didn't trip over himself. Dawn could see from his limp that he might not be quite as healed as he claimed, but it didn't seem to slow him down. When he reached them, he pushed her out of the way so he that could put his arms around Buffy.

"Love, don't—it's good news, isn't it? Don't be upset."

"It's good news," she echoed, suddenly dry-eyed. Then, she dropped her head against his chest and sighed, "It fixes everything."

Spike pressed a kiss into Buffy's hair, murmured in a gentle voice that Dawn knew she wasn't meant to hear, "I know, pet. I know."

* * *


	60. Chapter FiftyNine

**Chapter Fifty-Nine**

"What am I supposed to do?" Willow dropped her face into her hands theatrically. "I have no idea what to say to her about it."

"Why do you have to say anything?" Anya asked. She was the only one of them not sitting at the reading table; she was standing at the cash register, counting the day's earnings. Willow heaved a sigh.

"Well, maybe it'd be easier to skirt around the issue if I didn't keep walking in on them together. He's practically living there now…strutting around like he owns the place. And let me tell you, he's not shy with the PDAs."

"So, what _do_ you say?" Xander asked a trifle impatiently. He'd been having his own problems with Spike, who had apparently become the world's only diurnal vampire. This made it virtually impossible to avoid him and, in the name of peace, Xander had struggled to be civil. Unfortunately, Spike wasn't accustomed to receiving civility from Buffy's friends, and he didn't seem to realize he should respond to it in kind. Or, if he did, he clearly did not feel inclined to do so.

"Honestly, I have no idea what I say," Willow told him. "If they notice me I open my mouth and words start coming out…and I have absolutely no idea of what they are. If they don't notice me I just get the heck out before they do."

"Move," advised Anya. Willow shot her a nasty look, but she continued happily, "It makes sense, doesn't it? You don't like Spike, and Spike is always at Buffy's house; you live at Buffy's house. If you didn't, you wouldn't have to see Spike. Seems like a pretty easy solution. Why make yourself miserable just because you don't like the on-campus housing?"

"That is not why I moved into Buffy's house!" Willow was offended. "Tara and I moved so we could take care of Dawn while Buffy was gone."

"But she's back now."

"You know, this really isn't any of your business," Willow flared. Tara put a hand on her arm.

"Honey, maybe she's got a point. Things have been so tense lately and…and us being there doesn't really seem to be helping anymore."

"Hey, what about the rent money we give her?" Willow shot back. Tara just looked at her impassively and she blushed. "Or, uh, the rent money we would give her if we started paying rent. Which we totally should…and are. Starting right now."

"Honey, I'm not sure that will make much of a difference. She doesn't really need the money and—"

Giles, who had been pouring over a book, ostensibly ignoring their conversation, suddenly looked up. He hadn't spoken to Buffy since the night she'd thrown his offer—and his photographs—back into his face. He'd heard plenty about Spike from the others in the weeks since then, but nothing at all about Buffy's financial situation. The latter of which, to be honest, had been his trump card in ridding himself of the former.

"Why does she not need money?" he asked now. "Has she found a job?"

"Not exactly…" Xander began. His girlfriend interrupted him.

"She's got child support."

_"What?"_

"For Dawn," Tara jumped in quickly. "Apparently, they finally got in touch with their father and told him about the…the situation. He's sending them the money he owes them…all those payments he missed."

"And then some."

Anya, still blissfully counting money, was unaware of Giles' raised eyebrows, so Xander stepped in with an explanation.

"Old Hank must be having his midlife crisis," he said casually. "Or…ending his midlife crisis. Anyway, he's become the very picture of generosity lately. He might not send birthday cards or call on holidays, but he's definitely been more considerate of the financial side of things."

Giles wasn't even feigning an interest in his book now. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "And what," he began heavily, "would one consider 'the picture of generosity' in these degenerate times?"

Xander glanced at Willow, who in turn looked at Tara. Giles was frowning darkly now and the three of them were beginning to wish they had never raised the subject.

Anya finished her tally, slipped the money into a zippered bank bag, and shut the cash register drawer with a snap. She looked at the rest of them expectantly and, as it became clear that no one else was going to say anything, she finally answered Giles' question.

"Last month, he sent them ten thousand dollars."

* * *

When Willow had complained to her friends that Spike "practically lived" at the Summers' home, she hadn't been quite truthful. The fact was that he _would_ have lived there if he could; he would never have left. But Buffy had not invited him to do so, and there were plenty of nights he left her to stay at his crypt. Not exactly by choice, but he was afraid that his presence might wear on her nerves once its novelty had worn off. And there was a more practical purpose behind it as well. His nightly work meant that when he stayed with her, he had to labor even harder to make believable excuses when he had to slip away. She never questioned his stories and never seemed skeptical of them, but he felt a twinge of anxiety each time he did it. Disappearing for two, three, or four hours when he was meant to be spending the night with her seemed to him not only odd but also unappreciative. The last thing he wanted was for her to think, once again, that he didn't want to spend time with her.

Although he didn't live there all—or even most—of the time, the majority of Spike's belongings had been relocated to Buffy's house. There was no grand offer or request, no moving boxes or furniture from one dwelling to the other. For one thing, Spike owned very little, and what he did own was of no value. His limited wardrobe migrated over as he wore it, along with a few books and the odd CD, but that was all. The crypt was still where he resided, but there was nothing in the crypt he wanted. If Buffy had asked him to, he would have abandoned it without a backward glance. But she never asked.

Nevertheless, his role in her life had undoubtedly become an important one and she was no longer shy in letting her friends know this. Oddly, even after almost five weeks, Spike still felt shy about his new status, though Buffy's friends would never have believed it. There seemed to be some sort of truce declared there, and when they couldn't avoid or ignore him (and they were incredibly resourceful in finding ways to do this), they treated him with reluctant courtesy. If Buffy happened to be nearby, he feigned the same; if she wasn't, then he was openly hostile. He didn't like her friends. He was jealous of the time she spent with them, and he felt certain they must have been using it to try to turn her against him. He was relieved that she seemed to see less of them than she ever had before.

Still, whether they knew it or not, he was shy. It was a strange adjustment, learning to be not just a lover but a love as well, and entrusted with all the secrets of her home life. For the first time, he was able to see Buffy truly off her pedestal. She quarreled with Dawn, ate undressed salads for dinner and then snuck down to the kitchen in the middle of the night for brownie ice cream. She used the bathroom, clipped her toenails, wore ratty t-shirts to bed, and woke up with snarls in her pretty hair—but none of it dulled her appeal. He was fascinated by that private, imperfect part of her; he felt privileged because she allowed him to see it.

Ostensibly, there were only three rules of the house: no smoking, no spilling blood on the carpet, and no purposefully antagonizing her friends. The last one Spike broke with unfailing—if unintentional—regularity; the first two he found moderate success in following. But there were dozens of other unspoken rules, dozens of minefields to navigate through, dozens of mistakes for him to make. He watched violent movies and then laughed during the most brutal scenes; he experimented with torturing the families of simulated people in Dawn's favorite computer game and told the teenager graphic tales of his life as the Scourge of Europe. He never realized that there was anything inappropriate in his actions until he saw the look in Buffy's eyes when he did them, and then he tried to adjust his behavior accordingly. But the two impulses that continually tripped him up—excessive drinking and invading Buffy's privacy (which, unsurprisingly, often went hand-in-hand)—were much harder to master. He obsessed over her, craved her constant attention and, when even mildly intoxicated, would relentlessly dog her footsteps until she finally threw up her hands in exasperation and locked him out. Yet, Buffy was surprisingly forgiving of his mistakes, and she let him blunder through her life leaving a trail of unintentional damage in his wake. Because she had known, of course, that it would be like this. She had understood.

Because she loved him.

Spike tried to remind himself of this as he trekked through the cemetery, wearily dodging headstones and mounds of freshly raked leaves. Another night on the job. Although he'd only been at it for five weeks, it seemed as if he had been through the same routine a thousand times. Tonight had been especially difficult, and he felt exhausted, much older than a vampire should ever have to feel. He didn't like following orders, didn't like the rigid schedule his job required him to keep; he was tired of busting his arse half the night and then going home alone. He wanted—

_Don't be daft. What do you think she's going to do? Invite you to play Ozzie and Harriet with her? She won't even wear the ring for Christ's sake._

The thought left him feeling disheartened, although it was one he had been dealing with for weeks now. During that time, the ring had sat in its box on the top of her nightstand and, unless she was going to an extreme amount of effort to return it to the exact same position each time, he could only gather that it hadn't been touched since the day she brought it home. Spike knew he had no right to complain. If things were not exactly perfect, they were certainly closer to it than he had ever imagined they would be. Much closer than he actually deserved. It was just that the more he got, the more he wanted, and he wanted all of her.

Somehow, it didn't come as a surprise when, upon reaching his crypt, he found her just a few yards away from the door. He had been thinking of her with such intensity, she might have been a mirage fashioned out of his own desire. Except, of course, a mirage wouldn't have been fighting a vampire.

Spike leaned on the nearest monument and lit a cigarette, watching the battle with interest. If Buffy had seemed to be in the least bit of danger, he would have entered the fray in a heartbeat. But she wasn't, and he didn't like to interfere and risk disrupting the violent beauty of the scene before him. As far as he knew, Buffy hadn't played slayer since the day Willow brought her home, but the time off certainly hadn't hurt her game. There was nothing particularly memorable about the vampire she fought—just another awkward, nameless fledgling. Normally, Buffy would have dispatched such a creature easily, and she seemed well on her way to doing so with this one. After playing cat-and-mouse with him for a bit, the way any good killer should, she put him on the ground with a single, neat kick to the gut. Watching them, Spike wondered if the vampire knew how lucky it was to meet its end at her pretty hands.

Except that it didn't.

As closely as he had been watching her, it was still difficult for Spike to pinpoint the moment where it all went wrong. Her stake was driving for the vampire's chest, but Spike thought she must have hesitated because it never connected. They began to struggle in a way that the Slayer just didn't, not with anybody, and Spike pushed himself off the headstone.

He had only walked three steps when the vampire suddenly regained its feet. Buffy stood also, but her hand dangled uselessly at her side and, along with it, her stake. She seemed dazed, indecisive, and her adversary immediately took advantage of her torpor, using the few extra seconds it allotted him to execute an impressive uppercut that sent her reeling. Her back slammed into a stone monument and the small moan of pain that followed cut into Spike's heart. Weariness forgotten, he leapt across the grass to where the other vampire was dropping to his knees beside Buffy. The fledgling managed to pin her arms to the ground and dip his head down toward her throat, but he got no further than that, because with his own feral face terrible in the moonlight, Spike snarled and kicked the creature in his back. The fledgling looked surprised—then fearful—and started to speak. Spike kicked him again, this time in the face, and felt a savage satisfaction in the crunch of broken bone as the nose gave way. His victim howled, spat out blood and teeth onto the grass, and then tried to crawl away.

It was really rather pathetic.

Spike didn't have a stake, so he grabbed the one Buffy had dropped. Even as he killed the little bastard, he could hear her behind him, slowly climbing to her feet. She smelled of blood and adrenaline, and Spike didn't even wait for the dust to settle before he turned to her.

"You all right, pet?" Even as he asked, his hands were roaming over her body, checking for damage.

"I'm okay," Buffy assured him. Her voice was shaking with an odd mixture of amusement and regret. "Nothing broken," she added. "Just my eye…"

There was a wound above it, a two-inch-long horizontal gash trickling blood. Already, the area immediately surrounding it was becoming bruised and puffy. Not a serious injury by any means, but Spike's jaw clenched.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he demanded. When he ran the pad of his thumb across the cut to assess its depth, his touch was much gentler than his tone.

"What do you mean?" she asked. But her gaze slid away from his and Spike knew she was avoiding the question.

"What do you mean 'what do you mean?' You stood there like a moron and let that little shit beat you down. You almost got yourself killed!"

Buffy jerked her chin out of his hand, her bottom lip protruding in a pout that usually sent him to his knees. Now, he felt like hitting her. He grabbed her elbow when she tried to turn away from him.

"Well?" he pressed.

"I was thinking."

Spike stared at her, baffled.

"Thinking about _what_?"

"You said that if I had been there that night…the night you rose…you would have done everything differently. You wouldn't have hurt anyone."

"So what?"

"So…what if that vampire was the same way? It was a new one…just crawling out of its grave. Maybe…" Her voice trailed away.

"Oh, for Christ's sake—" Spike began. Buffy interrupted him.

"What? You're telling me it's impossible? That you're the only vampire capable of denying his baser urges? Or—" her voice suddenly became cutting "—were you lying when you said you could do that?"

_I will not hit her. It's wrong and it would give me one hell of a headache. I won't do it._

And he didn't. He turned her loose and drove his fist into a tree instead, feeling some small comfort in the burn of the bark against his knuckles.

"I…was…not…lying."

Buffy pried his hand away from the tree and looked at the grazed flesh, her expression unreadable. "Well, then," she pressed. "If you could do it, who's to say that other vampire couldn't have?"

"Don't be daft. He might've been able to do it, but that doesn't mean he would have."

"But you don't know that. I mean, he was just crawling out of his coffin. Does it really seem right to drive a stake into him when he hasn't even done anything wrong?"

"Oh, so you want we should wait until they do a little killing first, huh? Brilliant plan there, Slayer. It's a great way to reduce the surplus population."

"Would you have wanted to be staked as you crawled out of the dirt?" Buffy demanded, stung.

"Well, no. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't have deserved it. For God's sake, Buffy…"

"I mean if I had been there," she insisted. "If you had me to go back to…if you had me to make you behave…would you still have deserved it?"

"How many of them do you think are out there?" he asked. "How many like me with people like you waiting for them? Out of, say, ten thousand, how many do you think coming up out of the ground would have any interest in being good? Maybe one percent of that? And you're wanting to leave the other ninety-nine percent out there killing until you finally catch them at it—if you do—and put them to a just death? Does that really sound realistic to you?"

She shook her head, said slowly, "No, it doesn't sound realistic…but it also doesn't seem fair to kill creatures that are capable of being good before they ever do anything bad."

"Yeah, well. Life isn't fair." He was philosophical. Life _wasn't_ fair and you did what you had to do in order to maintain your own; it was the same conviction that kept him going out, night after night, and returning to her feeling no guilt whatsoever.

Buffy threw herself down on the damp grass at the base of the tree, leaning back against the trunk and drawing her knees up to her chest. She looked like a sulky child.

"You know, things were a lot easier when all I had to do was hate you."

Spike chuckled and dropped down beside her.

"Sorry to complicate things for you." He looked at her closely, trying to gauge her expression. "You're doing the right thing, Buffy. You know that, right? You're not going to let yourself get hurt over something like this…"

"I won't get hurt," she promised. "Tonight was just…a mistake, I guess. It's the first time since I got back that I actually tried to slay anything. I saw that fledgling and after the things you told me about your own turning, I couldn't help but think…"

Spike sighed. He should have known that would come back to bite him in the arse.

"I shouldn't have told you all that, then."

"Of course you should have," Buffy insisted. "I want to know all those things…I have a right to know them. The stuff you've done…"

Spike didn't want to think about the things he had done. He also didn't want to continue down a line of discussion that might lead her to think about them—or question them. He dropped his head back and pretended he hadn't heard her.

"Look there," he said instead. "I put a dent in the tree."

Buffy's eyes followed Spike's to the small, splintered hollow in the tree's trunk. She smiled a little and nudged his shoulder with her own.

"You've really got to learn to control your temper." Her sanctimonious tone made him grin. The self-righteous little bint; he couldn't have loved her more.

"Well, you've got to learn to quit pissing me off. Better be glad that this time the tree got the worst of it."

She laughed. "Poor tree. It isn't even very big. I wonder what kind it is."

Spike studied it thoughtfully.

"Flowering almond, it looks like," he said after a moment's deliberation. Buffy stared at him and he added defensively, "Well, it's not flowering _now_, obviously."

"Since when did you become an expert in horticulture?"

"I'm not. We had them at Wiltshire…gardener planted a bunch of them near the summerhouse. They all died, naturally."

"Why naturally?" she asked, puzzled. Spike just shrugged.

"No reason. Listen, can we move along? I haven't eaten yet and you're bleeding, which is just a damned tease."

To his relief, Buffy followed his lead and climbed to her feet. Spike didn't have any blood at her house—he'd drunk the last of his supply that morning—but when she asked him to come home with her, he didn't hesitate. Hunger and fatigue be damned; there were some needs more immediate than that.

* * *

"Have you noticed anything weird about Spike lately?"

Buffy looked up from the cereal she was pouring into her bowl, clearly surprised by her sister's question.

"Weird?" she echoed blankly. "What do you mean?"

Dawn hesitated. She had been helping Spike keep his secret from Buffy for over a month now, and that morning marked the third time he had bolstered their finances under Hank's name. Privately, he told Dawn that things were working out just as he had planned for them to. The bills were being paid, there was food in the fridge, and Buffy had a new pair of Prada boots; he was perfectly satisfied.

But Dawn was worried about him; the stress of maintaining two separate lives was clearly taking its toll. He frequently forgot to eat and, as a result, lost so much weight that his normally snug jeans hung off the narrow shelf of his hipbones. He began to look like an alley cat, all lean muscle and taut nerves. He looked hungry; he looked as if he wanted something very badly and could not get it. And Buffy didn't even seem to notice.

Now, thinking of it, Dawn mumbled into her Rice Krispies: "Well, he's getting really skinny."

Okay, so it was not the most subtle opening in the world, but she didn't believe in beating around the bush. She watched Buffy bite her lip, toy with the spoon that rested inside her own untouched bowl of cereal.

"I know," she said finally. "The nights he's over here, he forgets to bring blood. I've put some in the fridge—I've even heated it up for him—but he always gets distracted and forgets to eat it."

"So, make him eat it," Dawn insisted, feeling a flush of annoyance. Buffy dropped her spoon.

"Hey, it isn't like I haven't reminded him to," she said defensively. "But this is Spike we're talking about. When have you ever heard of anyone 'making' him do something? He's too stubborn."

"I bet you could make him if you man up about it. It's your fault he forgets; he's totally obsessed with you."

A small smile appeared at the corners of her sister's mouth.

"I know he is."

The answer might have appeared uncaring, but Dawn knew better. Buffy wasn't intentionally distracting him from doing the things he needed to do; she forgot as well. Dawn thought there must be something very appealing about having that kind of power over someone, the ability to consume him so completely. If _she_ were the object of such devotion, she would be smiling, too.

She resumed eating, commenting between mouthfuls: "And you should lay off him about the stories he tells me; I'm not five and I can handle it. He said he already told you everything, anyway. About before, I mean. Back when he was…different."

"Of course he didn't tell me everything," Buffy answered, suddenly looking amused. "Do you really think that he would?"

The reply startled Dawn. Spike had told her plenty about his life as a killer; he didn't seem particularly shy about it. She couldn't imagine what he might hide from Buffy.

Except for that one thing.

"What…what do you think he's keeping from you?" she asked nervously. Spike was killing himself building Buffy's house of cards; he was doing it because he loved her. But Dawn knew that if Buffy found out he lied, she would see it as a betrayal. Her stomach clenched as she waited for her sister to answer.

"Oh, I'd say just about everything after 1977." Buffy didn't seem concerned.

"Does that bother you?"

Buffy smiled, her expression suddenly faraway. "Of course not," she said softly. "I trust him."

* * *

Dawn didn't intentionally set out to uncover the mystery of Spike's career, although it would come as no surprise to him when she did. He had never confided any details of his clandestine activities to her, of course, but just knowing that there were such activities was enough for her to figure things out on her own. She was, as Spike so often said, smart as hell.

After her breakfast conversation with Buffy, Dawn wanted to talk to him about the money. Not that she was eager to meddle in his private affairs, but she needed to be certain he was okay, that he hadn't gotten in over his head trying to protect them. She wanted reassurance that he was doing the right thing—and that she was doing the right thing by keeping it a secret. So, when he left the house that night, she snuck out after him.

He was already out of sight by the time she made it to the street, but she headed in the direction of the cemetery anyway. It was much better to do this away from home, she thought. They could talk without having to worry about Buffy overhearing—and without the presence of Buffy nearby to distract Spike from the conversation at hand.

She arrived at the crypt just as he was leaving it, and she might have yelled to attract his attention—he was only a few hundred yards ahead—but something stopped her. Spike was holding a dented metal fuel container, gently swinging it in one hand as he made his way across the cemetery and into the woods that lay beyond it.

Dawn knew instinctively that he was on his way to whatever nocturnal pursuits paid him so well and, without fully intending to do it, she began to follow him.

It was a long walk and a difficult one. Although the parcel of land to the north of the cemetery encompassed only about thirty acres, it was densely wooded and somewhat steep. By the time Spike finally reached his destination—a cave set into the side of the craggy hill—Dawn was panting. She followed him to the mouth of the cave and then paused, doubling over as she tried to catch her breath. Which did her little good. When she finally did look up, she felt all the air rush out of her lungs in shock.

"Oh, my God."

Spike, standing just inside the entrance and bathed in the glow of a kerosene lantern, startled at that sound of her voice. He dropped the canister of gasoline and then quickly ducked to pick it up again before the contents spilled.

"Goddamn it," he swore. "Try and warn a bloke before you sneak up, Dawn. You almost made me waste it, and that'd come straight out of my paycheck."

Dawn was amazed at how casual he was being. Then again, this was Spike and he was getting good at hiding his emotions. She took a step closer to him.

"Spike…what is this place?"

He gave her a half-smile and then returned to the task of refueling the generator beside them.

"Welcome to my office, Bit."

"This is what you've been doing the whole time?" she asked in disbelief, staring at the uniform rows of neatly labeled trays that surrounded them. Each tray held a dozen identical mottled gray objects. They resembled rocks, but on closer inspection, Dawn realized that they were actually eggs. Very large eggs.

"Spike…what _are_ you doing?"

"Paying your mortgage."

Spike screwed the top on the gas tank and cranked the generator. A moment later, the dull roar of dozens of air conditioners filled the cave, and for the first time Dawn noticed how cold the air was, almost enough to make her shiver. Spike moved further into the darkness, instinctively swerving around the flats of eggs and stacks of shipping crates. Unsure of what else to do, Dawn followed at his heels.

"Yeah, I get that," she began. "But what exactly…?"

He pulled up so abruptly Dawn almost ran into him, and when she saw the white blur of his hand lifting in the darkness, she almost wondered if he was going to touch her cheek. Then, a tiny flame lit, throwing an eerie orange cast on his face, and she realized he was lighting a cigarette.

"Well, they're eggs obviously," he said. He took a drag off his cigarette and then motioned to the flats on either side of them. "Fellow sells them, but he doesn't like to be in on the day-to-day…he has me watch it for him."

"Watch it?"

"The place here. It's got to stay cool or else they start to hatch. It'd be a bit harder to ship them out if they were eviscerating their handlers, right?"

Dawn winced.

"So…what exactly are they?"

The red tip of his cigarette swung away from her and she heard him fumbling with something in the dark. "Some kind of demon," he told her. "Don't know just what, and I don't like to ask. It's something I've never seen before, anyway. But—" he snapped on a flashlight and trained it on the far wall "—that's what they grow into."

Her eyes followed the beam of light. A few hundred feet from them, bolted to the floor, was a heavy iron cage—a box, really, with only a few slats in the walls for air—and something was moving inside it. Something very, very large. Its hide was a dark color—black, gray, or green; it was hard to tell—and looked rocky. Claws scrabbled on the slick surface of the iron and then the side of its head was pressed against the wall of its prison. Dawn could see one of its eyes between the slats; it was muddy yellow and had a vertical pupil like a snake. Now that she knew it was here, she could hear the wet rasp of its breathing and smell the sharp odors of the urine and dung that littered the bottom of the cage.

"Why…?"

Spike swung the flashlight around so that it pointed at the ground between them and she could see his face. "It's a breeder. I helped unload her, the bitch, that first night. She liked to have killed me for my trouble."

Dawn squinted into the darkness, but she couldn't see more than one cage. "Where is the male?" she asked.

"Isn't one. They eat the males afterward, so it wouldn't do any good to have one. Anyway, this is the age of medicine, Bit. They do it artificially; buy the jizz from a third-party supplier."

"She doesn't try to hurt them?"

"Sure she does, but she can't. See the cage? It's tall enough so she can stand but not long enough for her to turn around. She's hemmed in. Makes it easier when she drops the eggs, too. There's a slot that opens up in the back and you can just reach in. It's a neat trick, really."

So he said, but the idea of being trapped in a dark box for months on end, unable to even turn around, made Dawn feel ill.

"That seems cruel," she said lamely.

"Course it's cruel," Spike answered, leaning against the cave wall. "But it's the way it's done."

He said it dispassionately; neither proud nor ashamed of the part he played in the creature's misery. To him, it was just a part of life, a means of making money. Dawn shivered and turned away from the cage.

"So, what happens to the eggs?"

Spike blew a smoke-ring into the stale air.

"I told you; they get sold."

"Yeah, but for what? I mean, do people use them in spells or…"

"Spells…weapons…I don't know. They're sure as hell not buying them to keep as pets."

"Weapons?"

"Well, yeah. Think about it. Turn one of those—" he waved a hand toward the cage "—loose on a town and it'd clean the area as quick as a missal. Better, too, because they wouldn't fuck up the area around them. Just shoot them once they're finished and you've—" He stopped when he saw her face. "What?"

"You mean these things are being used to _kill_ people?"

Spike pushed off the wall, suddenly looking impatient.

"Well, hell," he snapped, dropping his half-smoked cigarette on the ground and grinding it out with his boot heel. "I don't know what they're being used for—I don't ask and I don't give a shit. I get my money and after that it's none of my fucking business."

Dawn was starting to feel a little hysterical. This wasn't what she thought he would be doing for money. She had no idea what he would be doing—she never thought about it before—but this—

"You have to care!" she insisted. "If Buffy—"

He crossed the passage so quickly, she didn't even hear him coming, but the next thing Dawn knew he had her pinned against the wall. Not painfully and she knew that Spike couldn't—and wouldn't—hurt her, but her heart still leapt into her throat.

His face was right in hers, his sweet-smelling breath as cool and wet as fog as it passed over her cheek. Dawn thought she could hear the bones in his jaw pop as he clenched it.

"Listen here," he said thickly. "You tell Buffy about this and you'll end up out of a fucking home. Do you want that? You want her to be working three jobs to pay for low-income housing? You want to become a fifteen-year-old high school dropout working the tables at Denny's? Because I'll tell you, Bit…this might be the Devil's workshop, but it's all that's keeping your head above water right now."

Dawn knew he was right, but she also knew that there was more to it than that. There was an edge to his voice, serrated like the blade of a saw. Because in his eagerness to help, he'd let himself get in over his head, too, and if Buffy found out about this, there was no telling what she'd do. She might hate him; she'd definitely leave him. She had her sense of duty, of course, and that wouldn't include condoning the possible deaths of dozens—maybe even hundreds—of people.

She suddenly began to understand what Giles meant when he said Spike was a loaded gun.

Nevertheless, he was still her friend, and she understood why he was doing this. Whatever evil might be in the deed, there was none in the intent. She took a deep breath.

"I'm not going to tell anyone," she whispered, and he released her. "I wouldn't do that. It's just that…if Buffy finds out some other way…"

"She won't. I'm being careful." He began to move back down the tunnel, and Dawn quickly followed.

"Got to keep it dark back there," he explained as they reached the mouth of the cave and the glow of the lanterns. "If we don't, that bitch starts acting up something terrible."

Dawn was looking at the eggs again. There seemed to be so many of them, enough to take out a small country. She felt another shudder of fear.

"How often do you ship them?"

"Haven't yet. Got to find buyers first, people with money, and then they'll be packed in ice and sent…somewhere." He was indifferent. "Take another few weeks, I guess. Come on—" he motioned to the entrance "—let's get out of here. I'm done for the night."

Dawn followed him, but the sick knot remained in her stomach. She couldn't for the life of her understand why Spike, who was petrified of jeopardizing his relationship with Buffy, seemed oblivious to the fact he was doing something that was sure to make her despise him.

* * *

**Author's Note: Due to time constraints, I have not been able to keep "Forward to Time Past" properly updated on this archive. If you would like to catch up on the most recent chapters, please follow the link provided in my user profile** **or visit my live journal. I will bring the story up-to-date on this site just as soon as I get the chance. Thank you for reading. :)**


	61. Chapter Sixty

**Chapter Sixty**

The walk back through the woods was a nearly silent one.

Several times Spike glanced over at Dawn, hoping to draw some sort of response from her, but she never even looked back at him. She seemed uneasy in his company, which she almost never was, and even a little annoyed with him. He knew exactly what she was thinking.

Of course, that didn't mean he understood it. What he was doing didn't seem so very bad, although he wasn't so foolish that he didn't know Buffy would disapprove. But he wasn't doing it out of malice or for pleasure; he was merely trying to help keep his girls afloat. It wasn't as though he was directly hurting anyone. Spike had thought that Dawn, of all people, would have understood, and he felt a flash of irritation because she did not. He was doing his best. Why could no one see that?

"You know, Bit, you could stop sulking and just tell me what flew up your arse," he said finally. Because, anything—screaming, crying, _anything_—was better to him than cold silence.

Dawn pulled up so abruptly, he almost passed her by. "You honestly mean to tell me that you have no idea why I'm upset?" she demanded.

"I know it has something to do with—back there." He made a vague motion in the direction of the cave. "I just don't know what. Is it the bloody breeder in her cage—?"

"It's you!" She shrieked it so loudly he took a step back in surprise. "You're wrecking everything, and you're doing it on purpose! She'll leave you—"

"God damn it, Dawn. We already went through this before we left the sodding place. I don't think my argument changed much on the short walk over."

"You're doing it to pay the bills. Yeah, I get that. But don't you think you're being pretty stupid in the way you're doing it?"

"Well, it's not like I can apply to be a drive-through manager at Wendy's!" He threw the empty fuel can he was carrying, bouncing it off a nearby tree with a satisfying clang. "If I could get money the usual way, I'd do it. But I can't."

"That's the point, though. Maybe you're not—"

"What is your fucking problem with it anyway? I've done a hell of a lot worse than this in the past. You've had them for bedtime stories and it hasn't ever seemed to bother you before. At least now I've got noble intentions."

"Yeah, and you're going to wreck everything with them! Things are so great right now—everything's finally good—and you've got your finger on self-destruct. You're going to make her hate you."

"And what's the reason things are great now—" he began. But Dawn cut him off.

"I don't mean money! I mean things with Buffy. Her being with you almost makes things seem like—like we're a—"

Spike tilted his head at her.

"Like we're a what?"

She looked away. "Nothing."

There was an awkward silence.

Finally, Spike put a tentative hand on her arm.

"I'm not going to make her hate me, Bit. I'm not wrecking anything. I'm taking care of things, that's all, and she doesn't have to find out about it. She won't find out about it if you keep your mouth shut."

"Of course I'll keep my mouth shut," she said dully.

"Well, then. We've got nothing to worry about, do we?"

Although Dawn didn't answer him—and she certainly did not seem to be reassured—she fell into step beside him as he continued down the hill. She didn't speak to him again for almost twenty minutes, but Spike, lost in his own thoughts, hardly even noticed.

"Aren't you coming home?" she asked eventually.

Spike looked over at her in surprise. Without his even realizing it, they had reached the division of the ways; left led to his crypt and right would take them to the cemetery exit. Dawn, of course, was going right.

"Home?" he echoed slowly. He would have given anything to call it that, but it wasn't, not yet. Maybe not ever. The crypt was his home, and as far as Buffy knew, he had elected to spend the night there. He wasn't sure how she would react to him traipsing into her house unannounced at three in the morning, but his instincts told him it probably wouldn't be favorably.

Dawn's mask of disapproval suddenly faltered, and she looked at him with something akin to sympathy. "Come on, Spike," she coaxed, lightly touching his elbow. "You know she won't mind."

Actually, he did not know that. But the thought was so incredibly tempting, and he was too tired to resist it. Most nights in the cave, his tasks were mind-numbingly boring and took little effort to perform, but the strain of keeping them a secret was beginning to grow wearisome. There were too many nights of lost sleep when he worked, too many days when he refused to forfeit his time with her in order to catch up on it. Too much time spent worrying that she might find out about the eggs. He didn't feel at all guilty about his means of making money, but he lived in dread of what might happen if Buffy discovered the truth about it. Now, he ached for the comfort of her body, the reassurance that what he was doing wasn't as terrible as Dawn's reaction suggested, and that Buffy wouldn't hate him if she found out.

So, he went right.

* * *

Naturally, everyone was asleep when he and Dawn arrived at Revello Drive. Fearful of being caught, Dawn tiptoed up to her room immediately. Spike, however, hesitated in the foyer. There was blood in the refrigerator now—Buffy had seen to that earlier—and he was so hungry he could feel it in his bones, gnawing at his marrow and making him tremble. For just a moment, he thought he might eat before going to bed.

Then, he caught the faint, deliciously familiar scent of her, and like a switch flipping, his interest in food suddenly disappeared. Gripping the banister tightly to steady his shaking limbs, he took the stairs two at a time, covering the short flight in only a few bounds. He made no effort to be quiet—he forgot to—but it didn't matter. Years of habit served him in good stead, and he loped down the hallway with the silent tread of a seasoned predator. There wasn't even a betraying click when he closed her bedroom door after he slipped inside.

His girl was bathed in the dim glow of a quarter moon, her slender body curled with feline grace on the far side of the mattress, her small hands folded together beneath her chin. The very sight of her—the very smell—made his stomach drop. Hastily, he kicked off his boots and peeled off the black, collared shirt he wore over his cotton t-shirt. He started to pull off the t-shirt, too, but then he thought the better of it and decided to keep it on along with his jeans.

Then, after this seemingly endless preparation, he crawled into bed with her.

The heat of her body never ceased to amaze him with the way it seeped into his flesh, making his cool skin seem almost as warm as hers, as warm as life. Spike burrowed down into the bedclothes, carefully bending his torso to fit the sleek, curved line of her back. He buried his nose in the nape of her neck and breathed in violets and the dozens of other subtle aromas that mingled together to create the luscious cocktail of her scent. It eased the hollow ache that formed in his chest whenever they were apart. It made him feel whole again.

Buffy stirred a bit when he draped his arm over her waist, and although he knew he shouldn't wake her, Spike couldn't resist the urge to press his lips against the smooth ball of her shoulder rising above the blankets. He kissed the nape of her neck, nuzzled the silky hair that lay fanned across the pillow. She rolled over onto her back, and now he could see her eyes, her face, and the small, sleepy smile that graced her lips.

"Hey, you. I thought you'd gone home."

"Came back," Spike mumbled, kissing her ear, her neck, the corner of her mouth. He owned it all, and he felt a sudden rush of pride that he was doing such an excellent job of taking care of what was his.

"Yeah, I can kind of see that you did." Her voice was low, playful, and he understood that she was making fun of him. Somehow, that didn't matter. It was her eyes that mattered, the affection in them so profound it caught in his heart and made a straight shot for his groin. He breathed her name, shifting his pelvis across the mattress and over her hip, finally settling between the thighs that parted so readily for him.

"Oh, God. Missed you so much…"

Spike brushed his lips along the edge of her jaw, slowly working his way back to her mouth. That pretty mouth, curved into a smile. Dawn thought he was stupid because he forgot to eat, because he was always putting Buffy before anything else. But this was what he needed. Beyond anything else, just this. Her body underneath his own. Her mouth…he knew her mouth. He knew her lips and her teeth, her tongue and the delicate flesh that lined the insides of her cheeks. He knew the bony roof, the diminutive cave with its downward slope into her throat. He knew all the sweet spots contained therein, knew every conceivable way to make her squirm, and he was always confident of her eager response, the concrete evidence of her love.

He was kissing her so relentlessly, she finally had to grasp his hair and pull his head back so she could respond to his words. When she did, she was laughing.

"It's only been—what? Six hours?"

Six hours might as well have been the century he'd spent without her. He didn't miss her while they were apart, not the way normal people missed their lovers. He felt the mad longing of the obsessive, a feeling so strong it amounted to physical pain. He wasn't stupid; he knew it wasn't right. He knew that if she realized just how far around the bend he was for her, she'd probably be frightened by it. But he was afraid, too. He lived in the fear of her abandonment, and every time he saw her after an absence—every time she welcomed him back into her embrace—he felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and relief.

And desire.

Driven by the latter, he grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms against the mattress above her head. It was something he loved to do, putting her into that position of mock submission. It was a game similar in vein to his other favorite, in which she handcuffed him to the iron headboard of her bed, toyed with him until he was half-mad, and then finally set him loose so he could have her. If anyone asked him, he would have been hard put to explain why he liked to do these things. All he knew was that when she was trussed up—when he was—it satisfied something deep in him, something that went far beyond the physical.

The delicious thing about what he was doing now was that he didn't have to ask for permission first. He had a right to do it because she belonged to him, just as he had a responsibility to stop if she told him to because he belonged to her. It was a system he liked immensely.

He stared down into her green eyes, which still looked more than a little bit amused. "Didn't you miss me, pet?"

"You know the answer to that, I think."

Not what he wanted to hear. Spike's eyes narrowed, his mouth falling into the lines of a pout. "Tell me you missed me," he insisted.

She laughed.

"You silly, stupid, lovesick vampire…why do you even have to ask things like that when you know that I did? Of course I did. I miss you when we're apart."

_Then, why do we have to be apart? Why the hell don't you ask me—?_

Spike had to bite his tongue to keep the words from spilling out. Much as he loved her, he wasn't going to behave like a ponce; he wasn't going to beg her for an invite to move in.

Buffy's eyes were searching his, and although her arms were still pinned and she couldn't touch him, she looked as if she would like to. She looked as if she would have done something very, very tender…something not necessarily connected with the sex that by now seemed inevitable.

"William," she whispered, and he shivered at the name. "I love you. Don't you know that?"

It was something she didn't say too easily or too often these days, not the way she had in London. He knew it was difficult for her to put the feeling into words now, and he never complained about it. But he ached for them, and after hearing them for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, he wasn't quite sure how to respond. He felt, briefly, like a man dead, like a man in heaven. Which was ridiculous, of course, since he was not technically a man and heaven would be the very last place he'd end up when he finally kicked it. Still—

He dropped his head against her shoulder, pressing his mouth against the warm ridge of her ear.

"You love me," he rasped finally. "You love me, and you're mine."

_You're going to make her hate you._

The memory came unbidden—why in God's name did he think of it now?—and so strongly that it completely drowned out her tender response. It left him agitated, that thought. It seemed like an ill omen to remember such a thing now.

"You _love_ me."

He could feel Buffy's surprise as he said it again. Maybe it was the raw tone of his voice; maybe it was the way he shuddered when he said it. Or, maybe it was just the words themselves. She replied gently, "I do love you."

Satisfied, if only for the moment, he nuzzled at her ear, then the tender line of her throat. Her jugular throbbed beneath the caress of his tongue, and he could hear her heart begin to beat faster. Not in fear, but in a desire he could suddenly smell on the air, a desire that heated her flesh so completely that his own began to burn, pressed against it.

"Pet—love—I love—" He pushed his aching cock against the core of her heat, ignoring the way his fly buttons dug into him as he ground down, drawing a cry of pleasure from that quivering, outstretched throat. His girl, all his. Just his.

_She'll leave you_, Dawn's voice said abruptly. It was in the far reaches of his brain, sharp as a dentist's drill and even more relentless. And it was painful. It was the source of all his nightmares, her leaving him. It was what kept him on edge, what made him abandon every other need of his body just so he wouldn't have to waste a moment that might be spent with her. It was what drove him.

_But she is not going to leave me,_ he tried to reassure himself. _She'll never leave me. I'll never let her leave me. Because she's—_

"Mine."

At first, he didn't realize he had said it aloud. He thought the words were only in his head. Then, he felt her twitch beneath him, heard the dearest voice in the world whisper, "What?"

She was genuinely confused; she hadn't heard him clearly. But something about her question made his chest burn. She shouldn't be confused like that; she should know. She should know that she was his. All his. She should know he could never let her go.

_"Mine!"_

His voice was louder now, and uneven. What he really meant—what was really in his heart—was a plea for her not to leave him. But it wasn't in his nature to beg, not really. Not anymore. And the first instinct of his desperation was to force it out of her, force her to give him the reassurance he craved.

When she didn't, he became angry.

_Say it, goddamn you. Say it! Don't leave me—you can't leave me. You're—_

"MINE!"

It came as a snarl this time, and he felt her flinch. Even with her arms pinned, she could easily have knocked him off. He wouldn't have fought her even if he had been capable of it, and she knew that. But she didn't even try.

Spike hadn't realized yet that his fangs had descended. His head was pounding, and all he could think of was Dawn telling him that her sister would wind up hating him. She couldn't leave him, though. Even if she grew to hate him, she couldn't leave him. Not again. He had to keep her from leaving him.

Without premeditation—almost without comprehension—he opened his mouth against the thumping artery in her neck—

_Mine._

_Mine._

_Mine—mine—mine—mine!_

—and sank his eyeteeth in as deep as they would go.

Hot blood rushed into his mouth, and the world suddenly exploded in a burst of light and pain. And just before he lost consciousness, he heard her voice whisper to him, gentle and dim and very far away.

_Yours._

_

* * *

_

_

* * *

  
_

It was impossible to tell how much time passed after that, but when he woke up, the room was gray with overcast daylight. He woke to hands in his hair, rubbing his sore head very gently.

"Sit up for a second," a voice whispered. "Will you do that for me?"

Of course he would do that for her. But he was half-conscious and in pain, none too quick or graceful as he slid up the mattress, propping his back against the pillows at the headboard. Sitting beside him, Buffy was rubbing slow circles over his pounding temples, easing some of the pressure that made his head feel as though it were filled with rocks. Spike had to blink several times before his eyes could focus on her clearly.

She was fully dressed and a little pale, her long hair not quite concealing the bandage on her neck—a clean white bandage already blossoming with red.

_I did that_, he remembered in amazement. _I bit her._

He had hurt her.

"Oh, bugger," he cursed. "Oh, pet—Buffy—I'm so sorry—"

"I know, you are," she replied calmly. "It's all right."

All right? He'd shown her his worst side—he'd bitten her—and she was telling him that it was _all right_? His brain couldn't quite register the absurdity of that.

A tumbler suddenly appeared under his nose, the smooth glass edge bumping lightly against his teeth as she pressed it between his lips.

"Drink this."

The scent of blood reached his nostrils in waves, and Spike felt a stab of pain deep inside his belly, reminding him just how hungry he actually was. After what he had done, there was a sharp sense of shame in his hunger, in wanting the blood so desperately. At first, he refused to take it. Buffy had to wrap his fingers around the glass, pressing down on them just slightly before releasing her own grip. Then, he was holding it all on his own, and he was confused.

"It's all right. Drink," she said.

When he didn't, she put a finger on the bottom of the glass, tipping it toward his mouth. His lips parted—he couldn't stop himself—and he took a deep swallow of what she offered to him. The blood was warmed to just the right temperature, but he was surprised to find that it had a coarse texture, a bland undertone that, at first, he couldn't quite define.

Weetabix.

And Dawn wondered why he was willing to risk everything for this woman.

The question remained, however. Why was she doing this? Why was she being so kind when he had done something unforgivable?

He wanted to ask her, but after not eating for two days and eating only sporadically before that, Spike was so hungry he couldn't stop himself. He downed the entire glass in two more quick swallows. When she pulled the tumbler away, he thought that was it. Then, he heard the soft splash of liquid and realized she was refilling it from a pitcher on the nightstand.

"'s okay. I don't want—"

What he really wanted was to talk, but she pushed the glass to his lips again.

"Yes, you do. You need to eat," she answered.

One of her hands—the left one, the one not in his hair—crept to the waist of his jeans. She popped the top button free from its slot and dipped her hand into the loosened waistband. There was nothing suggestive about the way she ran her fingers across his abdomen, examining the firm plane of muscle and the slightly concave area where he'd lost weight. Her fingertips traced the sharp projection of his hipbones, which had grown even more pronounced as of late, and two small frown lines appeared between her eyes. Spike thought he knew why.

"Buffy, that's not it. That isn't why I—"

"Shh—" she reached up to tilt the glass again "—I know."

Did she, though? Did she understand what he had done to her? That, out of a possessive need and irrational fear, he had irrevocably tied her to him? That, despite his guilt, he didn't exactly feel sorry that he had done it?

The pitcher held five tumblers of blood, and he drank them all. Every time he tried to stop, every time he tried to talk, she would gently force him back to the glass.

The entire time, she was stroking his belly.

His eyes followed her movements when she finally placed the tumbler beside the empty pitcher on her nightstand. "Pet, you've got to let me explain. The bite—the reason I did it—see, I was—"

"I _know_ why you did it," she broke in, placing an insistent hand across his mouth to quiet him. "Spike, I know exactly what that was, and it's okay."

"Okay?" he echoed disbelievingly. Maybe he had a concussion—maybe he was hallucinating—because none of this made any sense.

It made even less sense when she threw her leg across his waist and straddled his lap.

The dart of arousal that followed was immediate, as intense as ever, but he felt too stunned to do anything about it. Anyway, he had a feeling he wasn't meant to do anything.

She pressed down against his semi-reclining body, her breasts flattening against his chest, her heart beating just next to where his did not. Even when she clutched a handful of his hair in one fist, carefully drawing his head back to expose his throat—even when she kissed the hollow between his collarbones and bit lightly on his Adam's apple—even when she teased her way to the place on his neck that made him squirm—he knew, somehow, that it wasn't supposed to lead to sex.

"You—it's—why do you say it's—" Spike couldn't seem to form a coherent thought, let alone put it into words. He would have liked to believe it was just because the chip had fried the greater portion of his medial temporal lobes, but he knew better than that. It was what always happened when she was especially loving toward him; he would revert to type. How could he do otherwise?

"You were trying to take what you've already got," she answered quietly, breathing the words into his skin in a way that made him shiver. "Why did you do that? What are you so afraid of?"

She'd hit too close to home with that—entirely too close to the secrets he was keeping from her—and the anxiety that followed made him irritable. He pulled his head to the side, avoiding the caress of her mouth.

"I'm not afraid of anything," he muttered stubbornly. "Don't know why you'd think…I mean, what I just did…it's what vampires do, Buffy. It's what we do when we lo—when we want—"

"Is it?"

_"Yes."_

Her eyes held his for a moment longer, but Spike looked back steadily, obstinate in the face of her skepticism.

"Okay," she said finally. Her voice was almost a whisper and not frustrated at all. In fact, he thought she almost looked pitying. Her fingers dipped back into his hair, stroking through the short, tangled locks, smoothing the stiff curls.

"You look tired, Spike. Are you tired?"

He was dizzy more than anything, and his head ached so badly that even the dim light hurt his eyes. He didn't want to tell her that for fear she would say he needed quiet—that she would leave—so he said instead, "Just a bit knackered."

"You can close your eyes if you want," she said, as if reading his mind. "It's all right…"

He tried not to, but it proved impossible. His temples were throbbing, and she was petting him in exactly the right way. Not giving him enough to get him started, just enough to make him feel extremely good. He gingerly dropped his head against the pillows and sighed.

"…time is it?"

"Almost eight." She trailed her fingers through his hair, grazing his scalp with her fingernails so that he shivered. "Don't worry about that though; you can sleep as long as you want."

He didn't want to sleep. He wanted to lie there, drowsy and content in spite of the pain. He wanted to let her bleed from him the stress of what felt like a thousand nights. He was sick of taking care of the goddamned eggs, sick of stealing about trying to hide the truth from her, sick of worrying that she would find out and hate him. Everything would have been fine if it weren't for the fucking money problem.

But he didn't have the energy to think about that right now.

He was just on the edge of sleep when Buffy leaned her head into the crook of his shoulder. The sharp, metallic scent of the blood beneath her bandage made his nostrils flare with sudden interest. Not in the desire for more, but something else—a feeling of satisfaction that had been diminished by guilt and almost forgotten about during his conversation with her. A small smile tugged at the corners of his bloodstained mouth, and from far back in his addled brain, a voice purred with avid pleasure.

_Mine._

* * *

There had been some kind of commotion in Buffy's room earlier, shouting so loud it had woken Dawn even before daybreak. The voice obviously belonged to Spike, and although Dawn couldn't hear what he said, she thought he sounded angry. Things had been quiet since then, and as Dawn stood at the kitchen counter, slicing a banana into her Cream of Wheat, she felt uneasy. Buffy had been downstairs only briefly; Spike, not at all. She wondered if he was okay, if Buffy might have hurt him in the midst of an argument and that was the reason she took him blood. She wondered if Buffy had found out about the eggs.

When she heard the front door bang, she assumed it was Willow and Tara; they hadn't been home all night. But the footsteps in the hall were too heavy to be a woman's and too deliberate to belong to Xander. By the time he arrived in the doorway, Dawn already knew who it must be. However, the question wasn't _who_ as much as _why_. Giles hadn't spoken to Buffy in over a month, not since their argument in the Magic Box, and as far as Dawn knew, a truce hadn't been declared. She had no idea what he might be doing there at nine a.m. on a Saturday morning.

"Hi," she said with false brightness. "Uh, long time no see. I'll get Buffy—"

She was hoping to slip out the door and avoid the awkwardness of being alone with him, but Giles held up his hand in a motion for her to wait.

"Actually…it is you I was hoping to speak with."

He seemed intent on surprising her this morning. Dawn opened her mouth and then closed it, uncertain of what to say. Finally, she joked lamely, "Let me guess. You want to borrow my new Britney Spears CD."

He didn't crack a smile.

"Not quite. Rather, I was hoping you might tell me where you got the means to buy that CD."

Was he accusing her of shoplifting? Dawn started to ask him, but he cut in before she could even get started.

"According to the others, your father resurfaced recently…and he has been most generous to you and to Buffy."

Her stomach dropped; already she could anticipate where this was headed.

"Well, he owes us child support. For me, I mean. He's way behind." Her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears. Giles raised his eyebrows.

"Isn't it interesting…isn't it fortunate…that he should finally assume his responsibilities at this time, just as Buffy needed it most."

"I called him," Dawn said quickly. "I called him because we needed money. I told him—"

"How did you find him? He is a hard man to pin down."

"His secretary told me."

"Yes?"

He was trying to trip her up, that was all. Dawn thought that if she just stuck to her original story—the one she and Spike had concocted together—then everything would be okay. Still, she stumbled over the words in her nervousness.

"Yeah. I—I kept calling her. Every day, nearly. You know…until she finally gave me his number. I called him, and—and told him about the money. I yelled at him."

"I see." He paused. Then, "And where is he?"

"Huh?"

"You said you spoke to him on the telephone. Where is he now?"

"LA. He hasn't given me an address; the envelopes just have his name." It was what Spike had taught her to say.

Giles took off his glasses and began polishing them on his shirttail. "What fascinates me," he began slowly, "is that you said your father has been in Los Angeles during this correspondence. Yet, I spoke to him yesterday afternoon. According to the telephone number, he is in Barbados. Where, apparently, he has been living for the past eleven months."

"I didn't mean he lived in LA," she backtracked. "I meant that's where the money is coming from."

Frowning, Giles dug into his back pocket and produced a thin stack of crumpled envelopes, which he then handed to her.

"These are what your father sent to you?"

She looked down at them, recognizing them immediately. They were the envelopes Spike used to mail Buffy the bank receipts. But he had been so careful about typing everything so that his handwriting couldn't be traced; surely, Giles couldn't be using them as evidence of dishonesty.

"Where did you get them?" Dawn knew she sounded defensive, but she couldn't help it. She was becoming genuinely fearful now. It was obvious that, evidence or not, Giles knew she was being dishonest.

"Not by theft, I assure you. Actually, they were resting on that small table just inside the front door."

Dawn felt like cursing. She was angry at Buffy—and herself—for not throwing those envelopes away. She could feel her knees beginning to shake.

"Yeah. And—?"

"Look at them." He extended his hand. "Not a single one of these envelopes has been postmarked."

She swallowed.

"So?"

"That means they have not been processed by the postal service. They were never actually mailed. But you already know that, don't you?"

"I don't know what you're getting at," she insisted with a longing glance at the door behind him. If she could only get past him…

Giles sighed. Although his voice was very soft, she could detect a hint of impatience underneath, and he began to press harder.

"The story you told me is that you spoke with your father, and he began to send you money. However, we have just established that these envelopes have not only not been mailed by your father…they haven't been mailed at all."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean that I—" His voice quickly overpowered her own, but it didn't really matter. Dawn had no idea how she was going to finish the sentence anyway.

"Since you have told me otherwise…since you have been perpetuating a lie…I can only presume that you know where the money actually came from."

He slipped his glasses back on and gazed at her in the manner of a weary father.

"Let's make this as painless as possible, shall we?"

* * *

When Spike woke up again (his head on her thigh, one arm slung across her knees), the room was much brighter with sunlight filtering through the closed curtains. Buffy was sitting razor-straight, her back not even touching the mound of pillows behind it, and there was a fresh bandage on her neck. Her pretty forehead was furrowed in concentration as she read from a thin booklet with the Sunnydale University emblem stamped on the front.

"Something must be pretty interesting," he mumbled. A little sulky, because even when he rose up on his elbow, she hadn't looked at him.

Buffy placed hand on his head, caressing him as if he were an attention-seeking puppy, and did not look up from her reading.

"I'm thinking about 19th Century Lit," she said, as if they had been in the middle of a conversation. "I mean, I read a bunch of those musty old books of yours when I was in London. How hard can it be?"

He blinked at her. "Huh?"

"Spring semester. I thought that with my dad helping out now, I might go back to school. You know…grab a degree so I won't be so completely helpless about finding a job." She glanced down, saw his face, and hastened to add, "Not full time. I learned my lesson there. Full course load plus slaying equals tired, bitchy Buffy. But—"

"Love, I think it's a great idea," he interrupted. The slightly uneasy expression melted away, and suddenly Buffy looked as lighthearted and happy as every twenty-year-old had a right to be.

"Really? You think so?"

Spike sat up slowly, struggling to ignore the lingering stabs of pain behind his eyes.

"Bloody right I do. You're too bright not to go to University. And if you need help with the rest of it…if you need a night off…I've been known to kill a demon or two."

She smiled at him gratefully and kissed his ear.

"I know you have, Spike…and thank you."

He marveled at the affectionate look in her eyes, at her seemingly sunny disposition.

_How in the buggering hell can she look at me like that? She's looking at me as if I'm some type of sodding hero, and she's got those wounds on her throat because of me. She ought to be pissed off._

Of course, only a complete prat would have risked asking, and he wasn't _that_ stupid.

"Are you hungry?"

The question startled him as much as the expression that accompanied it, but he tried not to let it show. "I think I had plenty of that earlier, love. I wouldn't say no to a drink, though. Got a bit of a headache from—well, a drink would be welcome."

"You left a half-bottle of vodka on top of the television downstairs," she reminded him, bending over her catalogue again.

That was true; he had. Careful not to move too quickly and make himself dizzy, he eased out of bed and into the jeans he couldn't remember taking off the night before. Ditto his shirt. He looked around for it, but it must have been tangled in the sheets or pushed underneath the bed. In the end, he decided it didn't matter much. His todger was covered, and there should be no cause for complaint from the roommates.

He'd hardly rounded the edge of the doorway when Dawn grabbed him by the elbow.

"I've got to talk to you," she hissed, completely ignoring his naked chest. She tugged on his arm, and he followed along obediently, padding silently on bare feet until they had reached her bedroom. She not only closed the door behind them; she locked it.

"Why all the secrecy, Bit?"

She didn't even bother with a preamble.

"Giles knows—he _knows_!"

"Knows about…?" Spike was bewildered.

"The money!" she snapped, rolling her eyes. "He knows it isn't coming from my dad. He showed up this morning and started grilling me. I basically had to shove past him and run out of the room just to get away, and even then it took him forever to leave—"

He grabbed her arm so roughly the chip went off, but his head already hurt so much it hardly made a difference. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing! I didn't tell him anything! He figured it out on his own. One of the others must have mentioned the money—assholes—and he figured it out on his own. He started calling around and looking for my dad—"

Spike groaned.

"—and he found out that he's in Barbados. Add to that the fact that Buffy left the envelopes lying around so he could see there were no postmarks, and he didn't really need me to say anything."

"Shit," Spike muttered. Then louder: "Shit, shit, _shit_!"

He grabbed a book from her shelf and heaved it across the room and against the wall. Dawn immediately threw an ineffectual punch across his back.

"Stop it! She'll hear you!"

"Does he know it's me?" he snarled, turning back to Dawn. "Is he going to tell her?"

"I think he knows it's you, but he doesn't really _know_ it's you. I mean, he doesn't have any proof. Yet." She was alarmed to see him vamp, a low, lion-like growl rumbling in his throat as he began to pace the room. He looked like an animal, caged and restless.

"So, you're telling me I'm on borrowed time then."

"No, you're not. Spike, if you quit now he won't be able to get any proof, and Buffy will never have to know. It'll be okay."

His yellow eyes suddenly became hazy. Quit now? How could he do that? What about the money? Buffy had a little set aside in the bank account. But what about—

_I thought that with my dad helping out now, I might go back to school._

The happy look on her face when she said that, as lighthearted as every twenty-year-old had the right to be…How in the hell could he take that away from her now?

He slowly shook his head, his fangs receding as quickly as they had descended.

"It's only a few more weeks."

_"Spike!"_ Dawn's voice was panicky, but somehow it sounded as if it were coming from a great distance, far away from his plans.

"Get five thousand more at the end of that—"

She jumped on him like a cat, clawing his arm. "Don't be stupid! They'll find out—"

Spike looked at her, his eyes suddenly attentive and very sad.

"I know, Bit, but it's what I've got to do. I have to take care of her."

* * *


	62. Chapter SixtyOne

**Chapter Sixty-One**

"You have to _take care of her_?"

The scorn in Dawn's voice might have felled a lesser man, but Spike stared back at her steadily, confident—if agonized—in the face of her criticism.

"Well, now. She doesn't have anyone else to do it, does she?" His voice was bitter.

"That is so stupid," she retorted. "You're out of your mind! Do you honestly think it's 'taking care of her' to do something that will ruin what she's got with you? If you think she doesn't have anyone else now, then what do you think will happen when you kill her trust and give her no choice but to toss you out on your ass?"

"You're acting as if I have an alternative!" he bit back, his limited self-control snapping at the last. Tossed out on his ass…was that what he was destined to be?

"You do have an alternative!" she hissed. "And you're just choosing to pay the electric bill instead of protecting what you've got with my sister."

His hand itched to hit her, to knock her down, but he didn't even raise it. Instead, he unlocked her bedroom door and wrenched it open with so much force it bounced back against the wall and left a nick in the plaster. He glanced back over his shoulder briefly—

"Just stay out of it, Dawn. Just stay the fuck out of it."

—and then walked into the hallway.

By chance—or, as Spike saw it, incredibly poor luck—Buffy was walking down the hallway from her own bedroom. He paused just outside the doorway, and Dawn, who had been intent on following him and continuing their discussion, ran straight into his back, causing him to stumble forward.

"Buggering hell," he swore, as he struggled to regain his balance. "Do you mind?"

Dawn started to say something in response—something sarcastic, no doubt—but she stopped so abruptly that Spike followed the line of her gaze to see what was wrong. She was staring at the bloodstained bandage on her sister's neck. Her blue eyes darted from Buffy to Spike and then quickly back again.

"Buffy…" she whispered. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Buffy said quickly. "It's fine. Spike just—we were just—nothing."

Dawn's brow furrowed, but it was clear from her sister's demeanor that Buffy wasn't upset by her injuries, and she was bright enough to know that whatever happened between them hadn't happened out of hostile intent. Still, when she looked at him, Spike felt himself shrivel a little. Not because her glance was accusing or angry…but she seemed to know without being told. She seemed to be able to look right inside him and see all the cowardly feelings that had made him do it. He quickly looked away.

"What are you two doing, anyway?" Buffy was clearly eager to shift the conversation away from her neck.

"Doing?" Spike echoed blankly.

"Together, alone, when _you_ are supposed to be downstairs getting a drink. Is something wrong?"

"'Course not, love. What'd be wrong?" He turned his back on her so she wouldn't see the agitated look on his face. "As a matter of fact, I think I'll get that drink now."

Both girls followed him down the hallway, talking, but it was Dawn's voice that made Spike gnash his teeth in swift, impotent anger.

"Actually, Buffy, Spike and I…we were arguing."

"Arguing?" Buffy echoed. Spike could hear the confusion in her tone, the curiosity, and he indulged in a brief fantasy of knocking Dawn down the stairs.

"What were you arguing about?"

"I was telling him that he should spend the night here, tonight. Don't you think it's a good idea?"

"I think that's up to him," Buffy answered, as if Spike weren't right there within earshot. "If he wants to stay, he knows he's welcome. But seeing that it's not even three o'clock yet, I think he's got plenty of time to make up his mind."

"But if we don't argue about it now, odds are he'll just walk out the door without saying anything about it."

Buffy paused, clearly not liking that idea.

"Where were you planning to go?"

This question, of course, was directed at Spike. He sighed heavily and turned at the foot of the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the balustrade as he looked from one pretty, feminine face to the other. The expression in his eyes when he looked at Dawn was considerably different from the one bestowed on Buffy—it was almost murderous—but she merely smiled back triumphantly. Still, in spite of his anger, his mind wouldn't stop circling around the words Buffy had said earlier.

_He knows he's welcome._

An open invitation, was that what she meant? Anytime he wanted? He _hadn't_ known that, not until just this moment, and suddenly he felt very tempted to say to hell with the eggs and the cave and all the rest of it, and to stay there with his girl. But he knew that he couldn't. He had responsibilities.

"Got a poker game at Willie's tonight," he lied.

"A poker game?" Buffy raised her eyebrows. "Do you honestly think you should go to Willie's, Spike? Someone is always getting into a fight there, and you still look so unsteady…like you're dizzy."

He _was_ dizzy; his head hurt and he felt queasy. But he wasn't about to tell her that.

"Yeah, well. It's just a few vampires…maybe a coupla demons. I have to get my blood money somehow, right?"

"See!" Dawn barked to her sister. "Don't you think he's being an idiot? I told him it was dumb to risk his neck going to some stupid poker game when he's so dizzy he can hardly stand."

Spike shot her an annoyed frown. Not only was she continuing to push when he'd made it so abundantly clear he wanted her to stop, but now she was behaving as if she knew the first thing about his dizziness or what had caused it. It was obviously her way of trying to prevent him from doing something she considered needlessly self-destructive, and he was getting bloody tired of it. He narrowed his eyes.

"And then, I reminded Dawn that I'm a vampire and don't need any mollycoddling from her or anybody else. I'd hardly consider it 'risking my neck' to play poker just because I've got a little bit of a headache. Or, a bloody concussion for that matter. It's five-card stud, for Christ's sake, not blue collar construction."

But it was too late. Or, perhaps he was doomed from the start. At any rate, Buffy suddenly decided to join forces with her sister in the battle of wills.

"There'll be other games, Spike. And we have plenty of blood in the fridge now; I made sure of that. You don't have to worry about getting more money."

"Don't want to be living off you, love—" he began.

"You're not!" She said it with such vehemence it startled him. Regardless, there were other excuses in his head, a dozen valid reasons for him to leave. But then her small, soft hand was cupping his cheek, and she was saying softly, "Spike…you're more important than money."

And that was when he knew he was defeated.

Nonetheless, the moment Buffy disappeared into the downstairs bathroom to get a fresh bandage for her neck—the moment he and Dawn were alone— Spike pounced on the teenager angrily. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he demanded. "I'm supposed to be feeding the breeder tonight; the bitch won't lay if she doesn't get something to eat every couple of days. I took that bloke's money, and now I've got to put in the work—"

"I know I can't stop you from doing this," Dawn interrupted quietly. "I know I don't have the power over you that Buffy does. But there is no way I'd just sit on my butt and watch you destroy yourself. If I can get one night, maybe I can talk some sense into you…or maybe you'll actually get some sense on your own. It'll keep you from getting killed so soon, anyway."

"God damn it!" he bit out, forgetting to keep his voice down. "I am a _vampire_! A fucking headache isn't going to kill me!"

"It's more than a headache, and you know it. If you met another vampire or demon along the way—if you got into a fight—you'd be toast. You can't even walk a straight line, for God's sake. How do you expect to make it all the way up to that cave? Anyway—" She hesitated.

"Anyway what?" he demanded.

"Spike, you don't want to go, not tonight. Even a blind idiot could see that. You want to stay here with her. You've not been able to do that much and—and now—" She paused. "Well, it's why you bit her, isn't it? Because you wanted—"

"You don't know anything about that," Spike cut across her words angrily. "You don't know anything—"

"Well, I'm not stupid. I know that's why your head is messed up. The chip went off, didn't it? I heard you shouting this morning…if you'd been playing some kind of bitey sex game, you wouldn't have sounded so pissed off. Anyway, those marks on her neck…they're pretty deep to be just play. I guess it means she'll have a new scar for her collection."

Not just a new scar; the only scar. His teeth had obliterated the others.

_Mine._

"Well, of course I miss her when I'm gone," he muttered gruffly. "Any man misses his girl when he spends a night away from her. But this sure as hell won't be the first night I've done it, or the last, and I'll survive. It'd be bloody stupid to forget my obligations just so I can play slumber party."

"I don't know why you think that," Dawn shot back. "You've been forgetting everything else lately. Even eating."

"Well, yeah. You got me there." His voice was dripping with sarcasm, but Dawn didn't take the bait. Instead, she looked at him sadly.

"Anyway, you might be stupid, but you deserve tonight. You deserve to be with her…to spend time with her…" Her voice trailed away.

And although the rest of the sentence remained unspoken, the words hung heavy between them: _Before things are over between the two of you._

* * *

So, Spike stayed.

But it wasn't the same as before; it wasn't as good. Today, even being with her didn't alleviate his anxiety. If anything, it compounded it. Borrowed time, that's what this was, and he couldn't enjoy a second because of that. He kept telling himself that he could make it under the wire, that one more paycheck would make all the difference, and she'd never even have to know about any of it. But he didn't really believe that.

He lay on the sofa most of the evening, staring blankly at the telly. He listened to Buffy argue with her sister about what to have for dinner; he suffered through the unpleasant and vaguely smoky scent of Buffy cooking—and inevitably burning—whatever it was they finally decided to eat. She pushed blood at him afterward, but he couldn't drink it. Although his vertigo had left him by then, his head still ached and the smell of burnt cheese sandwiches and scorched tomato soup made him feel slightly queasy. Mostly, he just wanted to sleep.

But he couldn't. Not without her touching him.

Ever since she returned from London, Buffy seemed to be able to read his mind; she'd never been able to do that before. Was it because she'd met him while he was innocent and still open? Did it teach her how to read his eyes for the thoughts behind them? Or, could she have done it all along and was only now making the effort? It hardly mattered, given the result and the result was that she knew, without being told, how to give him exactly what he needed.

Long after the sun went down, he was still stretched supine across the sofa, his sweetheart sitting patiently on the edge of it, holding a school brochure in one hand while stroking his shoulders and chest with her other. He didn't wake up until Willow and Tara returned.

Spike had forgotten about the witches entirely; they'd made it easy by disappearing for the past two days and avoiding him for weeks before that. Now, their sudden, noisy arrival startled him. He blinked his eyes and twisted his upper body, trying to catch Buffy's arm as she slid off the sofa and walked out of his line of sight. She patted him with what he perceived as indifference, and it cut into him like a razorblade.

"Where on earth have you two been? I've been worried—" Although Spike hadn't heard her mention either of her friends during their absence, Buffy certainly seemed to be telling the truth now. At least, the relief in her tone _sounded_ genuine. Spike felt a sudden, sharp stab of jealousy. Because, he'd been with her all day and half the night before that…because she was all he could think about and the same evidently wasn't true for her. She'd been talking to him and touching him, feeding him, kissing him…and all the while she was worried about a couple of bints who didn't care two pins for her. The realization of it was so upsetting, he completely missed the witches' answers.

However, he did hear what came next.

"We're, uh, we're not actually here to stay," Tara said softly. "W—we—the reason we were gone—"

"We were looking for another place to stay," Willow cut in.

"What?"

Spike climbed to his feet, not bothering to hide his smirk. This was a good thing; this was bloody great. Those bitches hadn't paid a dime of rent since they'd been there; they bought groceries only sporadically. It was about sodding time they cottoned on and got the hell out. Buffy was better off without them leeching off her, poking their noses everywhere and giving disapproving looks whenever they caught her with him. If they wanted to move, he'd eagerly help them pack their shit.

"We found a student apartment, and we don't even have to wait to move in, if you can believe it. Right near campus and pretty cheap." Willow's voice sounded hollow.

"We just think that maybe it would be better for you if we weren't here," Tara added gently. "You've got so much to worry about right now, without adding us to it. And—and the only reason we moved in to begin with was to take care of Dawn while you were gone. You're back now, so it stands to reason that we should…uh…" Her voice trailed away.

It was Spike who broke the awkward silence that followed. He wasn't only jealous now. He was angry about what he perceived as an empty threat meant to make Buffy feel guilty and a means to avoid paying the money they all knew the bitches owed her. He narrowed his eyes and said maliciously, "Yeah, good wishes and the like. When can she expect the check for your overdue rent?"

Willow spared Spike a single, withering glance—and Buffy a single hurt one—before turning and marching up the stairs. Tara, blushing and clearly embarrassed, her eyes fixed on the carpet, followed at a slower pace.

They had hardly turned the corner at the top of the landing when Buffy turned to Spike furiously. "Why did you have to say that?" she demanded.

"Say what?" he asked defensively. "The truth? It's about bloody time somebody said it around here. You've been letting your friends treat you like a doormat for months now, and those two bitches are the worst ones to do it—"

"And it's none of your business! God! Why do you always have to open your mouth and make everything worse?" Her voice was impatient, angry in a way he hadn't heard in a long time. Spike winced at the sound of it and, even more so, at the words that followed: "You're always messing everything up!"

She disappeared up the staircase after her friends, leaving Spike standing stunned in the entrance to the foyer.

What the hell had he done wrong?

His shock and confusion quickly gave way to hurt, and the only means he had of expressing it was anger. He savagely kicked the newel post at the base of the staircase, splintering the wood and effectively ruining Xander's repair job. Then, he grabbed his duster from where it lay draped over the railing and pulled it on.

Drawn out of her room by all noise, Dawn suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. She was looking down at Spike with something that might have been fear. For him, not of him. Clearly. She watched him throw open the front door and just barely managed to call out before he stepped through it.

"Spike, where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" he snapped. He hesitated only a nanosecond, but it was enough time to allow Dawn to catch up with him before he was out of sight. She lunged down the steps and out the door, following him across the lawn and jogging to match his quick strides.

"I though you were taking the night off—" she began.

"Yeah. Well, looks like you were wrong, doesn't it?" He wouldn't even look at her. He was afraid that if he did, he would misplace all that anger right onto her, that, once unleashed, he wouldn't be able to stop it before he said things for which he would never be able to forgive himself.

"Don't do this—Spike—" She reached out to touch his arm, but he shook her off.

"Always messing everything up, am I?" he muttered, near tears in spite of his fury. "Make it all worse…"

"She was just annoyed with you," Dawn insisted. "She can get snappy and bitchy sometimes; you ought to know that. It's all Willow's fault. Buffy didn't mean it. She didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"Not good for anything—never good enough for her. No matter what I fucking do—"

"Spike, why are you taking this so hard? It's not a big deal! I mean, you bit her and she forgave you—"

On the edge of the cemetery now, he whirled to face her, his eyes glittering and half-mad in the dim glow of the streetlights.

"Belt up, Dawn. I'm warning you; don't say one more bloody word about that. And get out of here."

"No."

He grabbed her forearms roughly, turning her so that her back was pressed against the wrought-iron archway that decorated the cemetery entrance.

"Don't you get it? I don't want you here! Push off!"

"I'm not leaving you," she answered evenly, enraging him even more with her calm exterior. "Not when you're like this."

"Goddamn it!" he swore. But he released her and turned, continuing his journey to the hill-path that led to the cave. Dawn trotted at his heels, for the most part silent now, and he ignored her.

Up the path and through the woods—his boots slipped on the loose rocks, and he could hear Dawn struggling behind him—but Spike didn't slow down.

The food for the breeder was kept in a metal bin just inside the mouth of the cave. It was some type of raw meat—horse, maybe—hacked into large, uneven pieces. It wasn't refrigerated and, in the mild weather of a typical California December, it was beginning to turn. Spike didn't care; it wasn't his job to replace it. He grabbed a handful of the spoiled flesh and strode down the dark corridor, dragging a match-head along the stone wall as he did so. He lit a lantern that was bolted to the rock, and suddenly the cage was visible, looming in front of them.

"Hey, bitch," he growled, kicking at the side of the crate. The resulting metallic clang echoed off the walls so loudly and for so long that, behind him, Dawn covered her ears with her hands. He did it again, this time drawing an answering snarl from the demon within.

"You hungry, you cunt?" Another kick. "You little motherfucking whore for hire. You want a nosh?"

He threw the meat at her, and a few chunks made it into the ventilation slats on the sides of the cage. Most of it, however, fell to the floor outside of her reach. The demon—hungry after two days without food—gobbled up what she could and then lunged against the wall of her prison, trying to reach the rest.

Spike laughed harshly; spoke to her mockingly as if she were a pet dog, "C'mon girl. That's a girl. Come get it."

Up to this point, Dawn had been watching him, too stunned even to speak. Now, she grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back down the tunnel.

"Spike—stop—!"

He turned on her, erupting into his game face now, although his eyes remained no less tormented because they were gold. "Yeah, right." His voice cracked. "Go on. Defend the caged bird, Dawn. Big Bad's just fucking with everyone tonight, isn't he?"

"What is wrong with you?" she shouted. "Have you gone completely out of your mind?"

He started laughing and couldn't stop. Out of his mind. Jesus. He was out of his mind. For her. Because he loved her. He'd been out of his mind for weeks now…for months…years. A century. It was just that now it was finally beginning to show; he couldn't control it anymore.

"Couldn't hardly help it if I was, Niblet—"

Dawn hesitated. Spike could see the struggle plain in her eyes, but he didn't understand it until she pulled back her hand and slapped him across the face. She used all the force in her arm—which, to a vampire, wasn't much—and afterward she stood there, panting. Watching him.

His laughter wound down like a dying engine.

"Niblet…" Dazed, he looked around them—at the rotten meat on the floor, the indents in the wall of the demon's cage, and the snarling, miserable creature inside of it—and his demon-face smoothed away. "Christ, I…"

"It's okay," she said softly. In another minute, her arms were around his waist. "It's okay, Spike."

But it wasn't. She just couldn't see that.

His chest was heaving against hers, painfully tight on the rise and fall, aching for something he couldn't have. "You don't understand, Bit," he whispered hoarsely. "You don't get it. She doesn't love me."

"Don't be stupid," she answered immediately. "Of course she loves you. Look at everything she's done for you. She stood up to Giles and everyone. She takes care of you, makes you eat when you're too stupid to do it yourself. She does love you…more than she's ever loved…"

"Not enough, though. Not nearly enough." His hand fisted in her long hair, and the grip was tight enough to hurt her. But she made no complaint, and because any pain he might have caused was unintentional, neither did the chip.

"How much _do_ you want, Spike?"

"Everything. Hell, Dawn. I want—everything."

"You've already got everything. It's just…hard for her to show it. She didn't mean anything before. She was probably just upset about Willow and Tara. You know Buffy; she wants everyone to like her. She wants everyone happy with her all the time."

_Everyone except me._

However, he did not say that aloud for fear that Dawn would grow tired of reassuring him. Instead, he stood silently, gripping a hank of her hair and bowing his face into the crown of her head. Slowly, his superfluous breathing began to return to its normal rhythm.

Dawn was awkwardly patting his back.

"You okay now?"

He opened his eyes, raised his head.

"No—"

"No?" she echoed. "What's the matter?"

"Dawn…" His hand dropped from her hair to the wall, and he braced himself against it, suddenly overwhelmed by a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"…do you hear the cooling units running?"

Her eyes widened.

"No." Then, again, "No, I don't. Spike—!"

"Follow me," he barked harshly, already breaking into a run. He weaved through the familiar rows of egg flats, jumping over a stack of boxes that half-blocked the generator that stood beside the cave's entrance.

It wasn't working.

"Shit," he cursed. "Oh, goddamn buggering _hell_."

Dawn was standing next to him, over him as he knelt beside the silent motor. "Need a flashlight," he muttered to her, running his hands blindly across the metal surface. "'s over there somewhere…across the aisle, near the wall."

She was back in an instant.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I don't know—fuck, I don't know." Spike was getting desperate, getting nowhere. He didn't know anything about mechanics or machinery. He glanced up at Dawn, wide-eyed with a sudden realization. "Shit, Niblet. You've got to get out of here."

"What?" she choked. "Why?"

"You've got to get out," he repeated, scrambling to his feet. "If they're warm, they'll have to be destroyed. If they're warm, they might start hatching."

"I'm not going to leave you here alone! If these things are as dangerous as you say, then you've got to get out, too."

He could feel her watching him as he ran lightly down the rows of flats, stooping over each one almost without pausing; but he didn't have time to argue with her. He was checking the temperature of the eggs, checking to see—

_Warm...warm...warm...warm..._

_Oh, Christ—they're all—_

"Weapon. I need a weapon."

There was a crowbar near the breeder's cage; he used it to open the bottom slot when it stuck and he needed to collect eggs. Spike grabbed it and worked his way back to the end of the tunnel, swinging the bar from side to side like a scythe in a wheat field, smashing the eggs that flanked his path. Behind him, the breeder was violently slamming herself against the wall of the cage, agitated by the smell of the meat just outside her reach—or by the destruction of her young. Spike had no idea whether this type of demon laid her eggs and left them, or cared for them until they hatched. He didn't care. The fuckers had to go.

"Dawn, didn't I tell you to get your arse out of here?" Because she was still lingering in the mouth of the cave.

"Are you going to be—?"

"Just fine. I'll catch up as soon as I'm done. Just—"

Dawn shrieked and he jumped back as something leapt out of the egg whose top he had just smashed.

"Bloody hell—"

It was fast and blended in with the shadows; all Spike could see was that it was roughly the size of an English bulldog and it had claws almost as long as its adult counterpart's. He darted after it, lurching in and out of the stacks and swinging his crowbar blindly.

"Dawn, I said get the fuck _out_!"

"I can't!" she cried back, just as his weapon crunched against bone. Spike looked up, and to his horror, he saw that she was standing on top of the generator, trapped by another young demon, who leaping up, snapping and clawing. He threw the bar like a javelin, driving it straight through the creature's chest from a distance of fifty feet. But now his weapon was gone and more were coming.

"Don't get down, Bit," he snapped furiously as she began to do that. "They're coming out over there; they'll grab you before you hit the exit. Use the crowbar to keep them off."

"But what about—"

"_Do it_!" He snarled around rapidly descending fangs.

_Weapon, weapon…need a weapon._

There was a torch on the wall midway down from the entrance. Not lit, but then beggars couldn't be choosers. He grabbed it and lunged for the nearest hatchling. There'd be no stabbing with such a dull weapon, but the torch worked fine for beating it to death. One good crack across the skull, and he was moving on to the next one.

Fortunately, he had destroyed most of the eggs already, and there were only about a dozen of the little bastards left to fight. He took them out individually and in sets, all with the easy brutality of a practiced killer. It wasn't until he was finished that Spike realized he was shaking.

"Damn it if that wasn't close." He tried to laugh offhandedly, but it came out more as a hysterical yelp. The knowledge of just how close Dawn had come to being killed made his stomach writhe and for a moment, he wondered if he was going to be sick on the ground.

Slowly, he made his way through the corpse-littered passageway to where she still stood on top of the generator. She was staring straight ahead.

"Dawn, are you okay?" he asked, furrowing his brow. She looked so pale.

"My stomach hurts," she whispered in a quivering voice.

And then she fell against him.

She weighed practically nothing, but when she dropped, her legs tangled with his, and Spike had to struggle to stay upright. The scent of blood was suddenly so strong that it overpowered everything else in the room. He pushed up her shirt, which was soaked in the source of the odor, but there was no need to search for the wound. It was right there in the middle of her abdomen, a long slit gaping open like a mouth, welling with red. Suddenly, blood was joined by the sharper smell of living entrails. When he looked, he thought he could see them in the depths of the wound, pulsing and slick—but still inside.

"Oh, fuck. Oh, God. Bit—"

* * *


	63. Chapter SixtyTwo

**Chapter Sixty-Two**

"Spike…what's wrong with me?"

Dawn's voice was so weak that Spike had to strain to hear her, and looking into the pale, pained look on her face almost felt like being kicked in the gut. He started shaking and couldn't stop.

"Nothing, Bit." He tried to sound casual, reassuring, but the words caught in his throat; they came out in a single, pained breath. "Y—you've just got a scrape. Just a little scrape is all. We'll fix you right up—"

Even as he spoke, Spike eased her onto the floor so that he could pull off his coat. He ripped off his outer shirt and wrapped it around her middle, knotting it as tightly as his trembling hands would allow and hoping that it was enough to keep the wound closed. Then, he folded her in his duster and gingerly lifted her up. The small moan that followed burned into his heart like a brand.

"'s okay, Niblet. It'll be just fine—just don't—don't fall asleep on me. All right? Just—don't—"

How fast could he safely carry her? Spike had no idea. Suppose the jostle of a run made things worse? Suppose her innards worked their way out of the wound and she—

But she was white and cold, shivering with shock. Wasn't it better to hurry?

He sprinted out of the cave and skidded down the hill, cradling her tightly in an attempt to make the descent as smooth as possible.

The hospital was so fucking far away, and he didn't know what to do. He kept shouting at her. Every time her eyelids fluttered—every time her head lolled—he yelled at her to wake up, to speak, to show him that she wasn't slipping away. Her heartbeat was thready, hard to hear, and her breathing sounded shallow…He had no idea what he could do to help her.

"Stay awake, Bit. Just stay awake."

At the base of the hill, he turned right, following the narrow footpath that was a shortcut around the cemetery and into the street. By chance, a car was parked on the curb close by, a beat-up green station wagon peppered with peeling novelty stickers. Inside it, a pockmarked teenager was smoking a joint.

Spike kicked the passenger side door so savagely it was a surprise his boot didn't go through the metal. The kid immediately stubbed out his roach and looked around, clearly expecting to see a police officer. When his bleary eyes finally landed on Spike—on Dawn—his mouth dropped open.

"Open the door, you stupid bastard! She needs help!"

Spurred into action by Spike's screams, the boy threw open the passenger's door. He looked stone cold sober now, and more than a little sick. Once he had started the engine, he swung the car into the street so sharply that the door—which hadn't yet been shut—slammed back against Spike's shin.

"Jesus Christ. What the hell happened to her anyway?" The kid was ogling Dawn's wounds out of the corner of his eye.

Spike could feel blood soaking through his t-shirt: hot and sticky, the sweet and vaguely metallic odor something that had never failed to arouse his appetite before. Now, he just felt ill.

"Does it even bloody matter?" he demanded. Then, "You stupid prat, if you don't drive faster I'm going to rip out your goddamn throat!"

"Hey, hey," the boy said quickly, looking even more alarmed. "Chill out, will you?"

"Chill out?" Spike asked disbelievingly, his voice caught somewhere between a growl and a sob. "I've got a girl bleeding out her intestines…and you're telling me to _chill out_? You thick son of a bitch, when we stop I ought to—" Dawn groaned slightly and Spike paused, wondering whether he should hold her tighter or loosen his grip, wondering if he was hurting her more, making things worse. Rivulets of blood were snaking from beneath her makeshift bandage and onto the floorboard of the car.

"Can't this shitbox go any faster?"

"Hey, eighty is the best I can handle." The kid sounded defensive. "Anyway—we're here."

Spike's head jerked around to the window. In possibly the first intelligent act of the stoner's life, he had stopped directly in front of the emergency entrance. He leaned across the console and opened the passenger door for Spike, who quickly and carefully carried Dawn out.

"Good luck, man. I'd help you carry her in, but…you know." He nodded to the bag of pot that sat on the dashboard. "Don't want any narcs asking me questions."

"Thanks," Spike muttered back, even though he was already halfway to the entrance and the kid probably couldn't hear him.

The glass door to the emergency lobby opened automatically, but Spike shouldered his way through even before it was fully ajar. Inside, the hospital was full of white, with brilliant fluorescent lighting glaring off the tiles and paint. Spike had never been inside a modern hospital before, but it looked just like in the movies. He shoved his way through the crowd of chairs and bodies in the lobby, quickly making his way to the reception window.

"Got a girl here—bad hurt—she—"

"Sir, you'll have to wait a moment. As you can see, I'm trying to—" The receptionist's eyes suddenly fixed on Dawn, the bright spots of blood dripping onto the clean white floor. "Oh, my word. What…"

"She got attacked by an animal. In the woods." The woman was picking up the telephone receiver at her elbow, but her movements seemed too slow; she seemed entirely too calm for Spike's overwrought nerves to bear. He kicked the wooden base of the counter and roared at her, "Call a fucking doctor, God damn it!"

The nurse hit a button on the phone, quickly muttering words that Spike was too distraught to hear. A moment later, a number of people dressed in white burst through the double-doors at the back of the lobby, pushing a stretcher.

"Don't—what're you—" A possessive snarl rose in Spike's throat as a man began to pry Dawn from his arms. Spike tried to hold onto her; he tried to tell the man that he would carry her wherever they needed her to go, but the fellow didn't listen. When Spike struggled, one of the orderlies pinned his arms behind his back and pulled him away.

"Wait, where are they taking her? Which one is the doctor—?"

"Calm down, sir. Just calm down. She's in good hands."

"But—" He effortlessly jerked out of the man's grasp and looked toward the door through which Dawn had disappeared, but the orderly quickly moved around to block his path.

Behind him, the receptionist was conversing with a nurse, who then pushed her way through the crowded waiting room. She had a clipboard in her hand and a set look on her face.

"I need some information, sir."

"What?" Confused, he turned his attention to her, momentarily forgetting about fighting his way through the doorway.

"For starters, we need to know her name."

"Dawn—Dawn Summers—she's fifteen—" He twisted around to look at the orderly. "I need to go back there—I've got to be with her—"

He took a step in that direction, but the nurse behind him shouted, _"Sir!"_ so loudly that he was startled into obedience. "This is what we need in order to help her!" she snapped at him. "I suggest you calm down and tell me what you know of her medical history."

Completely ignoring the bewildered look on his face, the nurse poised her pen over her clipboard. "Do you know if she has insurance? I'll need to see the card for our records."

"Insure—what? I don't know." He had no clue what she was talking about. Why was she asking him questions about insurance when Bit's intestines were about to fall out? Where had they taken her?

Not bothering to take the time to explain herself, the nurse plowed ahead. "Are you aware of any allergies? Prior medical conditions we should be aware of.... Medications she is currently taking?"

"I don't—she's not—" Spike wasn't sure how to finish the sentence, but the nurse's expression became even more sour.

"You are not a relative, are you?" She sounded suspicious, as if she had suddenly found herself in the presence of an obvious pedophile.

"What? No—no—she's my—I—"

"That being the case, we need to contact her parents immediately."

"She doesn't have any. Her mum died—father ran off somewhere—she lives with her sister." He didn't know if that was pertinent information or not, but it was all he had. The nurse scribbled something onto her clipboard.

"Name of her sister and her telephone number?"

Buffy. Oh, God. They were going to call Buffy. They _had_ to call Buffy.

Slowly, Spike recited the digits they needed, but when the woman asked him if he would prefer to call Dawn's guardian himself, he couldn't bear it anymore. He leaned over and retched onto the nurse's immaculate white shoes.

* * *

By chance, Xander was nearby Buffy's house when he got the call. He was on his way to an all night pharmacy; he'd been nursing a massive cold and had suddenly found himself to be out of NyQuil. But when his cell phone rang—when he heard the desperate, tearful voice on the other end—he swung his car into a sharp U-turn and sped back in the direction of Revello Drive.

Buffy had composed herself by the time she climbed into his car, but Xander could tell by her wide, red-rimmed eyes and shivering limbs that she was teetering on the brink of a complete breakdown. He chose his words carefully.

"Did they tell you what happened?"

"They didn't tell me anything," she answered hoarsely. "They said I need to wait to speak with her doctor, but that she's alive. Alive! As if, there was some question of her not being. She's in the trauma unit on the third floor; that's all they would say."

He reached over and squeezed her hand. "Didn't they at least tell you how she got there?"

"Yeah…they said…they said someone had brought her in."

"Someone," Xander echoed. "That means a person, not an ambulance."

"I guess…" She sounded uncertain.

"But who—"

"Xander, I don't know! I told you everything they said, and they didn't say anything else about that. Just that _someone_ had brought her in."

Flinching as the grip on his hand became painfully tight, Xander gasped, "Sorry, Buff."

The hand relaxed.

"No, I'm sorry. I'm just…I'm worried about her. It's all my fault. I didn't even realize she was gone until they called. I was upstairs with Willow and Tara; I thought she was still in her room, or down in the living room with Spike."

"Spike?"

There was an obvious change in Xander's tone; Buffy heard it and quickly became defensive. "Don't start, Xander. This isn't the time to start bitching about Spike."

"I'm not bitching about him," Xander said quickly. "I'm blaming him. It's a whole different concept."

"Blaming him for _what_, exactly?"

Their hands unclasped and Xander's quickly returned to the steering wheel.

"Where is Spike, Buffy?"

"He—" She paused, suddenly realizing that she had no idea where Spike was but that he was certainly not in the one place he had said he would be. He wasn't at her house. "He's…out," she finished lamely.

"And you don't know where."

"That doesn't mean anything!" she exclaimed, her temper flaring.

"Really? 'Cause it looks awfully suspicious from my end. First Spike disappears, and then Dawn…and then the hospital calls telling you that 'someone' brought Dawn into the ER with some mysterious injury. Doesn't that strike you as odd and awfully coincidental?"

"Spike would never do anything to hurt Dawn, and—and even if he wanted to, he couldn't. There's the chip in his head, remember?"

Xander shrugged, his shoulders and mouth tight.

"All right," he answered. "I'm not trying to argue, and I'll drop it now. I just think it's a coincidence, that's all."

They were silent for the rest of the drive and during the walk across the hospital parking deck. It wasn't until they reached the elevator bank that Xander finally grabbed her arm.

"Look, I'm sorry. All right? I'm not trying to make this any worse for you."

"Yeah?" she asked, jabbing her finger on the button for the third floor. "Well, maybe you should think before you open your mouth."

"Well, I believe that maybe you should be a little more realistic about things. You treat Spike like he's some kind of cuddly puppy dog, and he's not. He's a killer, a monster. And apparently, he's not done the great job of leashing that part of himself that we first thought. I mean, for God's sake—look at your neck—"

Shit.

Buffy hunched her shoulders, trying to sink down into her coat and hide her throat. She hadn't thought that Xander would notice the bandage.

"How do you—"

"It's not that hard to figure out," he answered. "Unless you've suddenly taken to lying in the graveyard, inviting vamps to bite you. How else would it have happened? None of the bloodsuckers in Sunnydale are actually strong enough to take you by force, and if they were you'd be dead. So…it's got to be Spike, hasn't it?" He paused, and then asked with a touch of bitterness, "You still want to tell me that the chip is working?"

"Yes, it is!" she snapped. She turned her face away so that he wouldn't see through the lie that followed. "I—I let him bite me, okay? The chip didn't even have to work because he never meant to hurt me…and because I allowed him to do it."

"Right. Of course you did." He was sarcastic. "Because that's, like, the best idea I've ever heard. Give the insane, soulless vampire a little slayer's blood to get him revved up. Bet he's a _real_ demon in the sack after that—"

Buffy whirled around, wondering for a split second if she would actually have the stones to hit her friend. Then, the elevator doors slid apart and they continued on their journey to the TICU.

And there, pacing the length of its small lounge, they found Spike.

When he saw them, he pulled to an abrupt halt. There was a tormented—and frighteningly guilty—look on his handsome face, and a quick dart of her eyes showed Buffy two things: he wasn't wearing his duster and his hands and arms were streaked with blood. His ancient gray t-shirt, which was the second of only two t-shirts he owned, was almost more blood than cotton, most of it already half-dried to an ugly shade of brownish-red. When she finally looked back up, she found that his blue eyes were searching her face.

"Buffy—I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—"

She could hear Xander shifting behind her, could feel his uncertainty. She was uncertain, too. This was Spike; this was William. Her lover, her love. And he was covered in her sister's blood. He was apologizing for what, exactly? What had he done?

"This is your fault, then." It amazed her how dead she sounded, how emotionless, when inside she was bewildered and bleeding.

"I'm sorry—" he began again.

Something in the repetition of the apology sparked anger, and her voice, which had been hardly more than a whisper before, suddenly became a shout that made the entire room take notice. "_You_ did this, Spike? You _hurt_ her?"

Quickly, he shook his head, his blue eyes darting from side to side, struggling to find words, struggling in a manner that usually made her feel tender and warm and very protective of him. Now, she felt only fear and disgust. Because this was her lover—this was her love—and he was admitting to—

What, exactly?

"I—I—I didn't hurt her," he insisted, the stutter of a hundred-plus years ago suddenly reemerging, "and I never meant for this to happen. If—if you'll let me explain—I—"

"I don't want to hear your explanations," she answered, trying to push past him to the reception desk. "I just want to see my sister—"

"Wait!" Spike grabbed her shoulders "Buffy, please—the bloody bastards won't tell me anything—I need to know how she is—"

He jerked away from her so quickly, Buffy thought for a moment that he must have stumbled. Then, she saw Xander slam him up against the blank white wall next to the door.

"You really are a piece of work, you know that?" he spat. "You did this and now you're asking her for favors? Like you even care about Dawn. The only thing you care about is yourself and getting into Buffy's pants!"

He pulled Spike back and then smashed him into the wall again, even harder, the vampire's already chip-sore head striking the plaster with a force that made Buffy wince in spite of herself.

"Xander, stop it!" She yanked him off and half-threw him into one of the lounge's plush chairs. "Sit down and shut up. I don't have time for this crap."

She turned and began to march toward the reception desk once again. She could hear Spike's footsteps behind her, and with lightening speed, she turned around and shoved him in the chest, sending him sprawling to the floor.

"_Don't_ follow me."

* * *

She had no idea who called Giles. It could have been Xander; he had called Anya, Willow, and Tara. Or, it could have been any of those three. Or, perhaps, he knew already, through that mysterious telepathy that all good parents—and parental figures—seemed to possess. It didn't really matter either way. She hadn't been inside a hospital since her mother was ill, and she was glad to see him.

"How is Dawn?" he asked gently, after an embrace that made it seem as though they had never been apart.

"I—I'm not exactly sure," Buffy answered softly. Now that Giles was there with his assertive, paternal presence, she had the overwhelming urge to cry. Instead, she cleared her throat and continued bravely, "They had to perform emergency surgery…they had to…sew her up and give her blood. She'll be in TICU until she stabilizes and then they'll move her to recovery. They won't let me see her yet. They…they said they're optimistic."

"That's good news," he said with false relief. "I'm sure she'll be mended in no time at all."

Buffy sighed, refusing to be comforted. "Did Xander tell you what happened?"

"Quite to the contrary, actually. Xander told me that he doesn't know what happened; only that it somehow involved Spike…who is, incidentally, pacing the hallway just outside the lobby." He paused and then asked quietly, "What did happen, Buffy?"

"I have no idea," she told him honestly. "Nothing more than what Xander already told you. So far…it looks like the only one who really knows, besides Dawn, is the one you say is walking the halls right now."

"Yes, well…" Giles was clearly at a loss as to how to respond, and Buffy didn't blame him. He had no idea what footing her relationship with Spike might be on now. Come to think of it, she didn't really know herself. He asked finally, "What do the doctors say?"

"They say it looks like what he said it was…a wound from an animal attack, but if they're saying that because it does or because he put the idea into their heads, I couldn't venture to guess."

Giles raised his eyebrows.

"Spike told them that it was done by an animal?"

"She's got a big gash here—" Buff indicated her midsection "—and I guess it must have looked like something done by a wild animal. Anyway, that's what Spike said, and they don't seem to be arguing with him at this point."

"Do you think by any chance he might have—" Giles began. Buffy quickly cut him off.

"No," she said, a little more forcefully than she had intended. But he was certainly not the first of her friends to ask that question, and it was beginning to wear on her nerves. Maybe it was because, with each repetition, her uncertainty in her own answer grew. Still, she stood her ground.

"Whatever happened, he didn't attack her himself. He couldn't have even if he wanted to. The chip…"

Giles looked at her steadily, and Buffy tugged at the collar of her leather jacket, checking to see if the bandage on her neck was adequately concealed. It was, but she had a feeling that it might not matter. Xander had probably told Giles all about it already. However, her watcher didn't argue with her, and whatever his private suspicions were, he kept them to himself.

"I suppose it's safe to assume that it was not an animal attack," he said instead. "Some type of demon, perhaps—"

"I guess. I don't know." She was agitated and unwilling to discuss it. Why did he have to ask so many questions now when all she wanted to do was sit quietly and enjoy the comfort of his presence? She knew he was merely trying to piece together what had happened so that they could remedy it, but she was already hanging on by a thread. The last thing she wanted to do was go into slayer-mode.

Reluctantly, she found her thoughts drifting back to Spike and the part he had played in all this. No matter what had happened, she knew it was his fault. His job was to protect Dawn, and he had obviously failed to do so. Given the vehemence of his apology, she had a feeling that there was something more to the tale than a simple failure to perform the task that had been given to him. What frightened her most was the fact that she was starting to suspect just what that something might be.

For the most educated man she had ever met, William certainly could be stupid. That much hadn't changed in the last century at least; Spike was still letting his emotions rule his brain. As long as he believed what he was doing was right…as long as he thought he was helping her…

She forced the idea away, locking it in the dark corner of her brain where frightening ideas went.

As if reading her mind, Giles suddenly asked the question she had been dreading. "What do you propose we do about your melanin-deprived sentry in the hallway?"

"Let him stay there," she said wearily. "He left the lounge after he and Xander got into it…again. If he wants to stand around out there by himself, that's his prerogative; I'm not interested in talking to him right now."

"He's waiting for information about Dawn, I suspect. He's concerned."

She turned to him in surprise. Xander had refused to believe that Spike's interest in the matter had anything to do with Dawn; he saw it as another indication of Spike's obsession with Buffy herself. But now Giles—who had only a moment ago expressed his suspicions that Spike was behind it all—was acknowledging the fact that the vampire did care for her sister? That he was capable of an emotion like concern or guilt?

He sighed and fiddled with his glasses, reading her expression as easily as he would have read a book.

"I do believe that he is capable of affection," he said unwillingly, "and I do believe that he has feelings for you and Dawn. But that doesn't make a relationship with him any less dangerous. He's a loaded weapon with the safety off, Buffy. Leave him lying around the house long enough and someone is bound to get hurt."

She wished she could argue with him on that point.

"Still," Giles continued. "I don't blame him for what happened to Dawn."

"No?" She felt almost dizzy. Oh, God. Could this night—could this conversation—possibly get any stranger?

"No," he answered. Then, after a moment of hesitation, "Do you know what he's been doing, Buffy?"

She sighed.

"I know it's nothing good, but I don't know what. I've tried not to question it."

"But you know about the money? You know that he is the one who sends it?"

"That part's been getting harder and harder to ignore," she admitted. "But how do you know about it?"

"It wasn't that difficult to figure out. The others…they want to believe in the innate good of humanity. It makes things so much easier, doesn't it? However, I…"

"…knew that my father would never do something that unselfish."

He nodded. "Sad as it might be, yes. Knowing that, it wasn't too much of a leap to guess who might be behind it all."

"And you think that has something to do with…this?" She motioned to the sterile, unfriendly space around them.

"I suspect it, yes. Whatever he did to Dawn—or whatever was done to her in his presence—I believe it is related. I don't know precisely where he has been procuring the money, but I think we can agree that he could not possibly be earning that much of it so quickly in any type of ethical manner."

"I don't get it, Giles. You say that you don't blame Spike for all this, and then you start talking about the evil things he must have done to get the money. Whose fault is it, if it's not his?"

His bottom lip trembled, and for an agonizing moment, Buffy wondered if he might be about to cry. But no. It was only that the words were coming to him with such difficultly; he had to force them out and it was clearly painful for him.

"Buffy…I…I am terribly ashamed of myself and of my actions. I thought I was doing right…I assure you, I thought I was…but…"

"But what?" Her breath had caught around the sudden, painful lump in her throat. Not Giles, too. Terrible enough that one man in her life had so betrayed her tonight. Now, it seemed she might have two.

And she was right.

He bowed his head into his hands and suddenly, briefly, he looked like a tired old man. "Buffy, when I went to the Council…when I told them that you must shirk your duties as the slayer if something wasn't done about your financial problems…they were quite willing to help you. For all their bluster, they realize how much they need you; Faith is less than worthless. They agreed to give you a wage. Not a handsome one, perhaps, but generous enough to provide for you and Dawn."

Valiantly, he made the effort to look up. When he did, his eyes were bloodshot and full of shame.

"The Council agreed to give you the money, Buffy, but the ultimatum was entirely my own doing."

* * *

"I can't believe I ever let myself trust him."

Willow glanced toward Buffy, who sat with Giles, out of earshot, some distance away. Then, she turned her gaze back to Xander. "Did you though?" she asked him.

His stormy expression changed to one of mild confusion. "Did I what?"

"Trust him."

He thought about that for a moment, clearly struggling to put his anger aside long enough to formulate an accurate response.

"Maybe I didn't actually trust _him_," he said finally. "I mean, he might have a chip, and he might love Buffy; but he's still soulless and kind of evil. Right? So…who could really trust that? But I never would have thought he'd hurt Buffy…or Dawn."

"Well, I—I don't think he really hurt her," Tara began tentatively. Xander quickly cut across her words.

"Okay, well _got_ her hurt, then. I trusted the bastard not to let anything happen to them…hell, I thought he'd keep the bad things at bay. He's a freaking vampire, right? He's got all that super-strength and hyper-speed…the heightened senses. He ought to have been a good bodyguard for her…" Xander paused and then added bitterly, "You guys realize that he's somehow connected with this, right? You get that he wasn't just an innocent bystander when some kind of nasty jumped out at Dawn?"

"We don't know that—" Tara seemed determined to play Devil's advocate, but Willow glanced at her doubtfully. She gently supplied the answer that Xander opened his mouth to give.

"We kind of do, though, honey."

"He practically shouted it from the rooftop," Xander jumped in. "_'I'm sorry, Buffy. I never meant for this to happen,'_ those were his exact words."

"He could just be blaming himself," Tara said.

"Yeah. Because he did it! To be perfectly honest, I'm surprised that _we're_ surprised. That we could have been so stupid. Barring everything else that's wrong with him, what the hell can you expect from someone whose only friend in the world is a fifteen-year-old girl? Doesn't really speak too highly of his maturity level…"

He said more, but suddenly Willow wasn't listening.

_His only friend in the world…_

A sudden and completely unexpected wave of pity washed over her, because she knew what Xander said was right. Dawn _was_ Spike's only friend, the only person besides Buffy who cared about him. He might be soulless—and she definitely couldn't vouch for him not being evil—but he did care about them. Regardless of how hard she'd tried to avoid seeing it, Willow had witnessed more than her fair share of affectionate moments between them not to realize that he loved Buffy. And—if for no other reason than because she was an extension of Buffy—he clearly loved Dawn as well. Whatever happened to hurt Dawn that night, it couldn't possibly have been intentional on his part.

After a moment of perplexed silence, Willow finally began to speak—maybe even to defend the unfortunate vampire. However, at that very moment, Giles appeared at their sides, and what came out of her mouth wasn't what she originally intended.

"Where's Buffy?" Because a quick glance told her that her friend was no longer in the lounge.

Giles sighed and rubbed a hand across his tired face.

"Dawn's doctors have reduced her condition from critical to stable, and Buffy is now allowed to see her. Dawn will be moved to a room shortly, where they will closely monitor her. There are, of course, the usual concerns for a postoperative patient."

Xander started to stand up. "Can we see her—" he began.

Giles shook his head. "Family only for now. Even Buffy is permitted no more than five minutes."

The four friends were quiet for a while as they struggled to digest this information. Then, Willow climbed to her feet.

"Where are you going?" Tara asked, her question immediately echoed by Xander. But Willow only shook her head.

"I'll be back," she said.

She made her way across the cramped lounge and then out of it. In the short hallway that led to the elevator bank, Spike was still waiting. Now, however, he was sitting down, his back against the wall and his knees pulled up almost to his chest. When he heard Willow's footsteps, he favored her with a single, anguished glance.

"I'm not leaving 'til I hear how Niblet is doing," he said resolutely.

"I'm not asking you to," answered Willow. Her voice was soft with pity, and Spike's quickly dropped as well.

Still, he sounded surprised when he said, "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm here because—because the doctor just gave Buffy news—"

"And?" He was impatient.

"Dawn's doing better. They're going to move her soon; they've let Buffy back to see her."

Spike leapt to his feet. "You're sure? You're sure she's all right?"

Willow nodded.

"I mean, she's not out of the woods yet, obviously. The doctors are still worried about hemorrhages and infections…stuff like that…but they're definitely feeling more optimistic. Hey—" her voice rose in alarm as Spike suddenly turned on his heel and darted across the hallway. "Where are you going?"

But his body was almost a blur as it shot into the elevator, and Willow doubted he even heard her question.

* * *


	64. Chapter SixtyThree

**Chapter Sixty-Three**

So now she knew the truth. About everything.

No, not about everything. God only knew what else they might be hiding from her. But she knew a lot. She knew enough for it to be painful, and as she hovered near her sister's bed in the TICU, Buffy gnawed on the inside of her cheek and turned over the events in her mind.

Giles. He had said—

No, not just said. He had _done_. He set all this in motion. He'd lied to her, watched her struggle. And for what? Because he wanted to get rid of Spike, because he thought that Spike was going to end up hurting her. He was right about that, of course, but it didn't make the deed any more forgivable. After all, if it hadn't been for him, she would never have needed money. Spike's feet would never have been set on this destructive path; Dawn would never have been hurt. In a way, it all came back to Giles.

Even as the thought entered her head, Buffy knew it wasn't fair. Giles deserved part of the blame, but not all of it. Spike was a big boy; he'd made his own decisions and they were bad ones. And she—

_Me nothing,_ she insisted stubbornly. _I didn't know about all this. Maybe I suspected it was him, but I didn't know. That money could have been from my father—_

In Bizarro World it could have been. Still, she'd had no proof; she hadn't wanted any. And, in typical Buffy fashion, she'd been able to stifle those fears and believe her own propaganda. She'd done it so well that, honestly, she had hardly even thought about the money in terms of where it came from. It was just money; it was just her good luck. Beyond that, she hadn't known and beyond that, she hadn't wanted to.

And now look at what had happened.

Her gaze drifted over to her sister's bed. This wasn't what she had expected when they led her back to TCIU. "Monitored care," the section of the ward Dawn was in, was an open area rather a series of rooms. Almost a dozen beds were arranged in a line, each one separated from the next by a cloth screen, and while not all of them were occupied, still it depressed Buffy to see how many injured people there were. Dawn was in a bed near the end, and they were doing something to her, checking her IV or giving an injection—Buffy couldn't see exactly what—and it meant that she had to wait a little off to the side until they were finished. The overweight nurse taking care of Dawn blocked most of Buffy's view, and it set her teeth on edge. It was bad enough for them to bring her back here and then tell her to wait; now this snow beast wasn't even allowing her the opportunity to look at her sister and see if she was all right.

"Here we are," the Yeti-nurse murmured as she motioned Buffy forward. Her voice was so kind that the Slayer felt a dart of guilt for having had such callous thoughts about her. "She's pretty well out of the anesthesia now, so if she's feeling strong enough she might be able to talk to you." Her voice dropped low. "Just be sure not to upset her or tire her out. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Buffy nodded, rushing forward so eagerly that she hardly noticed it when the nurse shut the cloth curtain to give them privacy.

Dawn was lying on her back, her head only slightly elevated by a stiff hospital pillow. She looked small and pale against the stark white sheets. In addition to the IV line, she had a number of wires attached to her, presumably connecting her to the monitoring equipment that beeped a steady rhythm nearby. When she saw Buffy, her half-closed eyes struggled to come into focus.

Afraid to touch her, Buffy drew as close to the bed as she could and leaned over so that she could whisper into her sister's ear.

"They treating you okay in this prison?"

Dawn gave her a small, trembling smile and absolutely no indication that she heard or understood what her sister said. Instead, she whispered in a voice still raspy from the intubation earlier, "…Spike okay?"

If she hadn't been so close to tears, Buffy's jaw might have dropped. There was her sister, in pain and maybe even still on the brink of death, and she was worried about _Spike?_ He was the whole reason she was here. In spite of her concern, Buffy felt a flash of annoyance at her sister. Annoyance tinged with jealousy because she felt certain that Dawn loved Spike more than she loved _her_ and that, despite her own intimate past with the poet-turned-vampire, Dawn probably understood him in his current incarnation better than anyone else did. Of course Dawn wouldn't be angry with him.

"Spike is fine," she said crisply. "At this very moment, Spike is standing, completely unscathed, in the hallway outside the unit."

"Don't…"

"Don't _what_?" This must be a new personal low for her—snapping at someone in an Intensive Care Unit. Thankfully, Dawn didn't even seem to notice.

"…be mad at him."

All right, this was unbelievable. Buffy was certain that her life had reached a new level of insanity, because in no possible way could it be normal for someone with an intestinal wound to defend the person responsible for giving it to her. For a brief moment, her Introduction to Psychology class came back to her, and she wondered if her sister was suffering from Stockholm syndrome.

"He was stupid," Dawn continued. Her voice was getting weaker, and it was obviously taking more effort for her to speak. Still, she pressed on. "But…didn't mean to be…bad…"

"And just how was he bad, exactly? What did he do?" Buffy hated herself for asking right now, when Dawn was injured and so weak, when she only had five minutes to spend with her. Yet, she had a responsibility as a slayer as well as a sister, and if whatever had done this to Dawn was still on the loose, she had to know.

Dawn shook her head slightly; she was beginning to drift off. Buffy persisted in a gentler tone.

"It's okay. Just tell me where."

"…cave…up a hill…behind the cemetery." Her eyelids drooped. "…it wasn't all his fault …"

"I know," Buffy whispered, trying to humor her sister, while inside she was still seething. "I know it wasn't, Dawn."

Suddenly, the curtains drew back and the Yeti appeared from behind them.

"I'm sorry, dear. Time's up."

Buffy nodded and stood. As much as she despised herself for even thinking of leaving Dawn, her mind was already drifting away to the cave and whatever lay inside of it. To Spike…

* * *

One of the first lessons he'd ever learned in life was that anger was most easily dealt with if one had an object on which to release it. For a long time, he had focused it inward; it wasn't until he'd met _her_ that he'd learned to discharge it onto other people. Archer, to name one. Not that he'd always come out the victor in their spats, but there had been a certain pleasure in unleashing his rage—and anxiety—on another human being. Later, under Angelus' tutelage, he would take things to a completely new level; the level on which he still stood over a century later.

His unsteady legs ate up miles of concrete and grass. Across the parking lot and down the streets, through the thick green lawn of the cemetery. Dawn's blood was still on his hands and shirtfront, and the entire night was beginning to take on the quality of a dream, a nightmare. His brain hummed as he walked, and his jaw couldn't seem to unclench; he could hear the uneven edges of his teeth grinding together and feel the heavy pressure in the roots of his fangs. His left hand flexed, opening and closing in anticipation as he ascended the rocky hill and entered the cave. The lantern he had lit earlier was still glowing at the far end of the tunnel, coaxing him forward like a dead man into hell. By its dim light Spike located a weapon—his crowbar—and went to work.

He didn't want it to be quick and it wasn't. Using the crowbar, he pried open the door of the demon's cage and released her. Her green-tinged nostrils flared and her muddy eyes blinked as she tried to orient herself to the fact that, after months of captivity, she was finally free.

Her first instinct was to find fresh air, and if he'd been in his right senses, Spike wouldn't have blamed her. The stench from her dung-littered cage was even more powerful now that the door was open; the unfortunate bitch was covered in dried chunks of feces and with the open sores of urine scald. Had he been her, he would have made a straight line for the mouth of the cave as well. Yet, when she did it now, Spike was decidedly _not_ in his right senses, and the attempted escape made him even angrier.

He beat her across the shoulders with the crowbar, making her whirl on him with her fangs bared. Spike's legs were wobbly, but the demon stood on shaky ground as well, her atrophied muscles betraying her as she tried to charge forward. She stumbled slightly, and he laid the bar across her skull, knowing, even as he did, that it would take a lot more than that to kill her. And it did. Much, much more.

By the time it was over, he was bruised and exhausted, though not as badly beaten as one might expect. In a way, that disappointed him. A bit more physical pain would have been welcome right now; it would have taken his mind off the aching in his dead heart. And from far back in his memory, he could remember the night in London…that fierce night when he was armed with nothing but a sack of railway spikes and his own misery. His back against the wall, fighting tooth and claw, laughing in the face of friendly death. Yet, like then, tonight he found himself cheated out of that half-desired demise. As he slid down to the ground and leaned against the rock, his own blood mingling with Bit's as it dripped onto his t-shirt, he wondered at his own unwanted luck.

Spike didn't hear the footsteps approaching him from the other end of the tunnel, but he felt the presence almost immediately. All blood, sweat, and adrenaline. Human and angry. He looked up and turned his head, and he wasn't at all surprised by what he saw.

It was the Dark Suit, and he didn't look happy.

Spike's eyes, still gold, narrowed as he regarded the source—or perceived source—of all his troubles.

"Looks like I put down your puppies," he said in a hoarse half-chuckle. "Oops."

"You think I don't already know what you've done?" The man's voice was dangerously low.

"Yeah, well." Spike shrugged. "You should've gotten a better generator. That one gave out on us."

"That one…was out of oil."

Oil. Huh. Imagine that. Spike had seen the small black cap with the illustration of an oil can on it, but he had never paid it any mind, any more than he had paid mind to the maintenance needs of his De Soto. Which might explain why the latter had been grounded as of late and sat like some gigantic steel toadstool at the edge of the cemetery lawn. However, as guilty as he felt about what happened to Bit, he refused to take responsibility for the generator. Nowhere in his contract did it state that he had to be a bloody mechanic to ensure that the eggs remained cold. The blame lay solely with the man standing before him, and the only emotions Spike could summon were a weary feeling of hatred and a vague sense of disappointment that he could not kill the bastard. The chip, of course. The mysterious workings of modern technology at its finest.

Except that nothing—not even the finest military circuitry—could be considered altogether foolproof.

"Do you think I don't know who you are?" the man cut across his thoughts. "Or what you are? William the Bloody—William the weak and helpless—Spike the neutered dog. What other vampire would need money but a vampire not in a position to take what he wanted?"

Spike's ridged brow furrowed and his yellow eyes became slits—a cat in a corner, a cat ready to strike.

"It's the only reason I'd hire your ilk in the first place," the man continued softly, one hand slowly dipping into the pocket of his coat. "Because I knew that if it all went wrong, I would have no problem exacting the proper penalty."

The stake, when it appeared, was no surprise. It was some type of hard, fragrant wood—cedar, Spike realized, once the man drew closer—and it was ornately carved. So, this was planned then. Once the vampire was unneeded, the vampire would have been disposed of in order to keep the secret. He said as much to the Dark Suit, who laughed a hyena's laugh into the dark.

"And this is the first time the thought occurred to you? Your faith in me is rather charming, Spike, if pathetic and ill-advised."

So, then this was friendly death, stalking toward him with a raised stake and keen eyes. Despite his anger, this one was very obviously not of the type who would want to draw out a battle; it could have all been over in a moment if Spike wanted it to be. A plunge of the man's arm, a throb in Spike's chest…and that would have been the end of him. All that misery mercifully finished.

Yet, still—_still_—he could not bow to it.

Instead, anger flared. The same anger previously directed at the now-dead breeder demon at their feet. And when the man stepped forward, indolent and graceful, Spike dove on him like the demon he had long considered himself to be.

The chip screamed in protest, but Spike was already in so much pain at that point he hardly even noticed it. Even if he had, his hatred was such that the severest of agonies couldn't have stopped him now. The flaw in the design; a mistake on the part of the Initiative. The chained dog could bite…if he wanted to badly enough. If he was completely out of his wits.

However, Spike didn't exactly bite. Their bodies tangled on impact, both of them landing heavily against the stone floor, wrestling blindly. The man was jabbing at him with the stake, but he could get no force behind the blows because Spike was leaning on his arm, and he could not reach the heart, anyway, because their chests were pressed together. Instead, he battered the vampire's back with its sharp tip, leaving purple indentations like Morse code and a pain so insignificant Spike didn't even notice it.

_I don't care if it blows my brains out. I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch._

Perhaps he would have. Spike felt the man's moist breath against his cheek and the sticky, hot sweat seeping through his expensive clothes. Yet, there was no fear. Like him, the man didn't dread death and didn't kneel to it. For some reason, that similarity to himself made Spike even angrier. His teeth were closing in on the exposed throat when suddenly he heard a voice ring out across the tunnel, echoing and re-echoing along the rocks. Feminine and authoritative. Full of righteous indignation.

Buffy.

"Spike, _stop it!_" she shouted again, and this time Spike did stop. He released the man and stood up, the fog of his hatred fading away along with its visage. His blue eyes regarded Buffy with something akin to confusion.

But she wasn't looking at him.

"Are you the one behind it all?" she asked, directing the question at the battered man who was slowly climbing to his feet. The man didn't answer, but amazingly enough, for the first time he actually looked apprehensive.

Rightfully so, if one judged by the words that came next.

"Get out of here. If I see you in this town again—if I even feel your presence—I'll kill you myself and I'll make it painful."

It was a bluff. A good one, but still a bluff. A real killer would have done it then, made it quick and easy. Spike knew that even if the man danced naked in the city streets with a disembodied head in each hand, Buffy wouldn't kill him. She was a hero, of course, and heroes didn't do things like that.

The Dark Suit didn't know that. He turned and fled, and perhaps he _wouldn't_ reappear, though Spike doubted it. He would turn up somewhere, sometime, with the exact same intentions he'd had here. It was just the nature of business. But, now, he and Buffy were alone, and Spike didn't really give a shit about any of that.

Their eyes met and in spite of everything else that had happened, he felt the familiar, possessive rush.

_Mine._

"Are there more?" she asked without emotion. At first, Spike didn't understand what she meant. Then he looked at the corpses on the floor.

"No…no more," he said softly in what he imagined was a reassuring tone. "I did them all."

Her eyes narrowed—she gave a slight nod—and then she turned her back on him. She began to walk away. Just like before, except that now he was so unhinged he refused to allow it. There was no shove in the chest this time, no cold order for him to retreat; Spike didn't give her time for any of that. He darted across the blood-soaked earth and grabbed her upper arms, pushing her up against the tunnel wall. But gently. He didn't want to hurt her.

"You can't just walk away from me."

"Can't I?" She struggled to push him away, but his grip was too strong.

"I'm not going to let you just walk away," he insisted. "You're _mine_, Buffy."

"Yours," she echoed, her voice full of scorn. "And just what makes me yours, Spike? Is it what we had back in London? Because you sure as hell haven't tried to recreate that trust here. Am I yours because we've been together since I got back? You can see where that's gotten us. Or, am I yours because you bit me, because you tried to put that stupid vampire mystical mojo on me to keep me with you?"

"You think it didn't work?" he demanded. The desperation in Spike's voice frightened even himself, and he saw Buffy flinch. Still, he pushed on, "If you walk away now, do you really think you can stay away? I'm in your blood, Buffy. I've had you, every part of you. You'll always be mine—you're mine—"

Without warning, she brought her knee up to his stomach in a blow so powerful that it caused him to stumble backward. His shaking knees buckled before he could catch himself, and he fell hard onto his back.

"No," she said softly. "I'm not."

* * *

It was full dawn when Buffy walked out of the cave a few minutes later, and she was glad of it. The pink sky and blazing red sun meant that Spike couldn't follow her, that he wouldn't be able to see the tears that threatened to spill over the corners of her eyes.

Most of all, it meant that he wouldn't be able to offer her comfort. He wouldn't be able to worm his way back into her heart.

Except that he was in her heart. It had been easy to piece together what he'd been doing; the broken eggs and dead hatchlings strewn along the tunnel, the fully grown demon beaten to death with a crowbar, made explanations unnecessary. She should have hated him for it; she should have seen him for the monster he was and been disgusted by it. But she couldn't.

_I'm in your blood, Buffy. I've had you, every part of you. You'll always be mine._

Buffy touched the bandage on her neck, wincing a little, though not from the slight pressure of her fingertips on the wound. Oh, God. What if he was right? What if he'd done something to her so that she couldn't leave him? She knew nothing at all about claims, and it had never occurred to her before that they might take away free will. A flood of anger washed over her, heating her cheeks. In an instant, her tears dried up.

_Damn you, Spike. How could you do this—?_

But she knew how. She knew why. He loved her; he would have done anything to keep her with him. He was insane; he was obsessed. He was—

William.

This time, Buffy began to cry in earnest. Because he was. He was William, and she was incredibly disappointed in him.

* * *

He was dying. He was dead. Right through the heart; she'd finally succeeded in doing it.

All that sunny winter day, Spike sat in the cave and stared out into nothing. He couldn't understand what had happened, couldn't quite wrap his tortured, chip-addled brain around it. Because he'd done his best to take care of her. He had taken care of her. The bills were paid, and she and Dawn had new clothes. She was thinking of going back to school to earn her degree. He'd done a _good_ job of taking care of her. Of course, he'd known she would be upset when she found out…if she found out. He'd expected her to scream and hit him; he'd expected her not to understand.

But he'd never really expected her to stop loving him.

Now she hated him. She wasn't his after all. Or, she said she wasn't. Or, she thought she wasn't. It all meant the same thing in the end. She was gone.

He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered in the dark. Oh, Jesus. She couldn't be gone. She bloody couldn't. Not after everything he'd gone through for her. A hundred years and more…he didn't think he could do it again. He wasn't strong enough.

At nightfall, he slowly rose to his feet. He hadn't slept in twenty-four hours, hadn't eaten in even longer than that, and his head hurt so badly he saw flashes of light behind his eyes when he moved. It didn't matter. Physically, he'd been through worse. Emotionally…well…it was the emotional part that made forgetting the physical part absurdly easy.

Because of the aforementioned neglect, his De Soto was in no shape to take him anywhere, but Spike needed transportation. He needed to get the hell out of here, and the bus wouldn't cut it. He stole a battered Volkswagen Rabbit from the cracked cement driveway of a nearby duplex. Probably they wouldn't even miss it. They'd be glad to get rid of it, revolting piece of junk that it was. Otherwise, they wouldn't have left the keys inside it.

He didn't bother covering the glass to block out sunshine. He would reach his destination before daybreak and, even if he did not, what did it matter? It didn't. He could roast in hell for all he cared because nothing mattered at all anymore.

Nothing except her.

* * *

"Good God," Angel exclaimed.

By chance, he had been on his way out of the hotel just as the other vampire arrived, and Spike didn't even have time to knock before his grandsire opened the door. Under the best of circumstances, Angel would have been startled and surprised by the visit, but Spike's haggard appearance made him even more so. He had lost weight and his eyes looked sunken, his cheeks so hollow that it threw his perfect cheekbones into a high relief that looked anything but attractive. His shirt was covered with dried blood, and his hair was full of dirt.

"Spike, what in the hell did you…" Angel began, but his voice trailed away almost immediately. He had no idea what to say.

"I've never asked you for anything," Spike said quickly. His bloodshot eyes looked desperate in a way that was almost painful to behold, and Angel—who despite their violent past did have some affection for the younger vampire—had to turn his head away.

"My life…my whole life…I've never asked you for a single thing."

It was the truth and Angel couldn't deny it. He nodded slowly, wishing that he could ask Spike about his bloodstained clothing, his wretched appearance, but he dreaded the answer. He was afraid.

Again, the miserable blue eyes found Angel's and, this time, the gaze held.

"Help me."

There was a hesitation following Spike's request. Not more than a nanosecond, but it was there. Then, with a sigh that clearly spoke of his reluctance, Angel opened the door wider and invited his visitor to come inside.

* * *


	65. Chapter SixtyFour

**Chapter Sixty-Four**

She couldn't stop thinking about him.

It must have been the claim, Buffy told herself. Because she wasn't really like this…she wasn't this selfish, this bad of a person. In her right mind, she would never have put a lover above her responsibility to her own flesh and blood. And she hadn't done that now. Not really. After all, she was here in the hospital with Dawn; she wasn't holed up with Spike in some dank cemetery lair. So what if her thoughts were there with him, wondering if he was okay, if he had eaten that day? So what if she felt sick with worry that she might have unintentionally injured him when she shoved him in the cave? It wasn't her fault. If she had been in her right mind, he would have been the farthest thing from it. If it weren't for the claim, she would be focused on Dawn's recovery the way she was meant to be. She would be able to hold a conversation with her friends who were, after all, doing their very best to mend fences. Instead, she found her thoughts constantly returning to the vampire. That stupid, destructive vampire who somehow simultaneously was and was not the person she had fallen in love with in London.

God, it would have been so much easier if she could just hate him.

_If it weren't for the claim, I_ would _hate him_, she thought bitterly, _and that's the whole point. That's why he did it. Because he knew that something like this would happen…that he was going to mess up…and he wanted to make sure he didn't lose me when it all went wrong. He didn't count on me being strong enough to resist it._

"But I should have known what he would do."

She spoke aloud and although she didn't turn her head to look, she could sense Giles twisting in his chair, his eyes wide and slightly wary. She didn't blame him for his surprise. After all, she hadn't spoken to him in over four hours.

It was just the two of them now. After Dawn had been moved to a semi-private room (that had been elevated to the level of a private room by the sheer luck of having no one else checked into it) the rest of her friends had gone home. It had been a long vigil at the hospital, and they were ready to shower and sleep, to eat a meal that did not taste as sterile as the institution in which it was cooked. Buffy didn't resent them for that; in a way, she was relieved. As well intentioned as their presence had been, their constant demands on her attention had quickly become grating. So, she thanked them and watched with genuine relief as they departed. Only Giles remained and, oddly, Giles' presence did not bother her. He was quiet and he allowed her to be, and they had passed the time together, side-by-side in matching armchairs, staring out at Dawn's sleeping form. Buffy knew that Giles thought she hated him for what he had done, and that he remained at the hospital anyway because he loved her. And as flawed as it might be, she needed his love. She needed someone strong to sit beside her, to offer her support. She didn't have anyone else.

Now, she had surprised him with her words, but she wasn't really speaking to him. She was merely giving vent to her own feelings, which had remained locked inside for so long she was beginning to feel as if they were strangling her.

He hesitated a moment before answering her, clearly weighing his words carefully, searching for the ones that would offer her solace and not threaten the fragile civility that had settled between them, the possibility of forgiveness on her part.

"Buffy," he began slowly. "It's easy to place the blame for this on yourself; in a way, it's really only natural. But you aren't responsible for anyone's actions but your own, and I was wrong to insinuate otherwise. You aren't a fortuneteller. How could you possibly foresee what Spike would do?"

"But I should have," she insisted, more to herself than to him. "I mean…I saw him back then, Giles, in London. I knew him. I was…with him. And he was obsessive. He was the same a hundred years ago as he is now; he hasn't changed. He watched me all the time. If I left a room, he'd follow me. He would trail after me like this protective, overanxious puppy. He had some kind of work he did in the city; I still have no idea exactly what it was. But he was supposed to spend a part of every day at it, or if not every day, then at least three or four mornings each week. When I—when we—well, after that he just stopped doing it. He stopped doing everything just so he could be at home with me, so he could focus on me exclusively. He was fixated and it wasn't healthy. I knew that."

There was a long silence, and then Giles asked quietly, "And did you enjoy that?"

"What?" Buffy looked at him sharply, wishing that she could summon some righteous indignation in response to the question. But she couldn't, because the truth was that she _had_ enjoyed it. She had. She'd been touched by his devotion, flattered by it. Her hungry, lovesick Victorian. She'd laughed at his obsessive behavior; and, while she'd teased him about it, she had also encouraged him with every caress. By the time she finally took it upon herself to help him—by the time she began to realize how destructive it was for them both—it had already been too late. She'd disappeared almost before the lesson had begun; she had confirmed his worst fears. Losing her had helped mold him into what he was today. No matter what Giles might say to the contrary, Buffy knew that she was to blame for everything that had happened. She should have seen a disaster coming. She had seen it coming. She'd just chosen to ignore it.

A gentle hand came to rest on her arm, but the touch was so hesitant, so uncertain, that it offered her no more comfort than the words that followed.

"Buffy, listen to me. This was my doing, not yours. Had I not taken it upon myself to insist upon that ultimatum—a mistake I assure you I plan to remedy now—"

"The ultimatum wouldn't have mattered in the long run," she interrupted wearily. "Not with Spike. Your not giving it would have just delayed the inevitable. You were a bastard, Giles, but you were right when it came to him. He doesn't have a conscience. In what other direction could this have gone? I was just being stupid."

"You were confused," he corrected kindly. Buffy shook her head.

"I was selfish. I fooled myself into believing that I could just get him back, make him what he had been back then. I wanted him."

She looked over at her Watcher, her eyes hardening. "That's why I did what I did. What about you? You knew how bad things were for me and for Dawn. How could you do that to us?"

"I thought I was protecting you. I saw all that Angelus put you through; I experienced plenty of my own pain at his hands. Spike is no different. He might care for you, but that doesn't make him safe. You said as much yourself."

"And you thought that justified your actions."

"Yes," he said softly. "I did. It was arrogant of me—I realize that now—and I am trying my best to right that wrong. The Council is still willing to provide you with compensation for your work; they know nothing of Spike or any ultimatum regarding him. Therefore, in regards to money—"

"I'm all set," she finished bitterly. She sighed and wiped her eyes, willing herself not to cry in front of him.

"Thanks all the same, Giles, but I've got to tell you…right now that doesn't really make me feel better."

* * *

It would have been easy to hate Giles for what he had done, even if his suspicions about Spike had proven correct. Buffy wished that she could. Things would have been so much simpler that way; she would have had someone to blame, someone to focus her anger on. But trying to hate Giles was as useless as trying to hate Spike. She was too tired to hate anyone, and when Giles left the hospital a few hours later, she missed his company.

Buffy wished she could leave, too. It would have been such a relief to go home to a hot bath and a warm bed, maybe even to eat a real meal. She knew that her sister wouldn't mind if she did. The cocktail of painkillers provided in her IV drip made Dawn drowsy; she probably wouldn't even notice Buffy's absence. But Buffy couldn't bring herself to do it. It felt too much like abandonment. Instead, she spent the night trying to nap in the narrow confines of a lumpy vinyl armchair. It seemed like a fruitless effort at first, but she must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew it was well after midnight and someone was gently shaking her.

"Angel?" He seemed like a dream, a hallucination; something conjured by her own confusion and exhaustion. Then, Buffy became aware of the heavy weight of his hand on her shoulder, the tepid, dry breath against her cheek, and she knew he was real. "What are you doing here? Did Willow…?"

Angel shook his head and then looked uneasily at the bed where Dawn lay, seemingly asleep and seemingly completely unaware. He spoke in a hushed tone. "It's a really…_really_…complicated story. Do you think we could go somewhere and talk?"

He meant alone, Buffy realized. She glanced at Dawn, who looked so pale and small in the hospital bed, surrounded by machinery, and she felt a superstitious shudder. If she left and something happened…

"We can just step out into the hallway if you want," Angel suggested quietly. "We might wake her otherwise, and I don't think this is the kind of thing she needs to overhear right now."

Intrigued, Buffy nodded, allowing him to help her out of her chair and onto her feet. She was grateful for the assistance; her legs felt stiff and clumsy from sitting so long. When they reached the corridor, he released her and she had to lean against the wall in order to keep her balance.

"How's she doing?"

Buffy rolled her head to the side, following Angel's gaze to the half-open door next to them. "She's okay, I guess. Better. Stoned a lot of the time, which is probably a good thing considering that her intestines were split open."

"But she's going to be…?"

"So they say. As long as no infection sets in and aside from one seriously badass scar, the doctors think she should be fine. Eventually."

He nodded.

"And how are you doing?"

A brief and entirely inappropriate burst of laughter escaped her, and Angel raised his eyebrows.

"Sorry," she said, clearing her throat. "It's just you have no idea…the past few months have been…" She paused, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

"Yeah, I heard that things haven't been going so well here, that you've been having some money problems—"

She quickly cut him off.

"Oh, there aren't any money problems. A completely insane and morally bankrupt individual took care of that for me. Or a group of very stupid old men did. I guess it all depends on how you look at it."

"A group of men?" he echoed and Buffy sighed.

"Long story. The upshot of it is that after six years, the Council has suddenly decided I deserve a little compensation for my work. Imagine that. Giles arranged it."

"When did that happen?" Angel asked, surprised.

"Again, I say: that all depends on how you look at it," Buffy replied. "Anyway, I should get my first official paycheck in a few days. Cool, huh?" Her words were full of disdain.

"It seems to me that it would have been cooler had he arranged for the compensation a little earlier," Angel answered. His resentful expression perfectly mirrored hers as he added, "For instance, it might have kept Spike out of trouble and Dawn out of the hospital."

She looked at him sharply.

"You know about Spike?" A stupid question, given than he had just told her he did. And Buffy wasn't surprised, exactly, because why else had she thought he was here? But she was curious. Who would have thought to telephone Angel in the midst of all the recent chaos? And why on earth had they thought it would be of help?

"Much to my dismay…I do." The shrewd and slightly sour tone of Angel's words made her suspicious and she narrowed her eyes.

"Okay, color me confused. You already said that Willow had nothing to do with your being here, but if she didn't call you then how do you know what happened to Dawn? How'd you know what room to find us in?"

Angel sighed, his dark eyes turning sullen and mutinous. For a moment, he was so quiet that she wondered if he would answer at all. Then, he muttered almost unwillingly, "Actually…Spike told me."

"_Spike_ told you?" Buffy was certain she must have misheard him. Spike hated Angel; he would never have called him with news about Dawn. Unless…

"This wasn't some stupid macho pissing contest was it?" she demanded. "Don't tell me he's been calling you up, bragging about how great he's been taking care of things here, rubbing your nose in the fact that he and I…that we…" She stumbled, uncertain of how to finish the sentence.

"Buffy, do you honestly think that I would have just sat idly by if I had known what Spike was doing to get you that money? If I had known he was getting you money at all? He might have been idiot enough to believe that things would work out—and to assume that the end would justify his means—but I'm not. I wouldn't have let him do something that would risk hurting people, not even if it did pay your bills."

"Well, then…?"

"He showed up at my door yesterday morning." Again, Angel sounded almost reluctant to part with the information. "Just a couple of hours before dawn. I'm not entirely sure what happened to him; there were some holes in his story, I think. But he looked like complete hell—"

"I know exactly what he looks like," she cut in. A trifle defensively, because it had been a clue, of course, and one she had willfully ignored in the interest of getting money. She didn't need Angel reminding her of that. "What's your point, anyway?"

He raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised by her harshness but just as clearly seeing through it. "I guess I don't have one," he answered slowly. "It was just an observation."

"I don't want your observations. I want to know why the hell Spike decided to take a road trip to Los Angeles the day after he nearly killed my sister, and I want to know why the hell _you_ decided to make a road trip to Sunnydale tonight to tell me about it."

"He wanted my help."

"_Your_ help?" Buffy asked sarcastically. She wasn't intentionally trying to hurt him, but she was angry and confused, and Angel was there. He was convenient, and she could think of no better person at which to direct her anger. And then there was the absurdity of his claim, the very notion of Spike asking Angel for anything. Spike would have rather been staked than to ask a favor of his grandsire. It must have been some sort of trick, and Angel had just been naïve enough to fall for it.

Except that naivety didn't really fit well with her image of Angel. And she couldn't imagine what kind of scheme might send Spike running to him with a plea of help.

"Trust me, no one was more surprised by his visit than I was," Angel said dryly, cutting across her thoughts. "But that's what he wanted, Buffy. I'll admit that it was genuine. He wanted me to…he wanted…"

"He wanted _what_?" she pressed when his voice trailed away.

Angel cleared his throat and rubbed a hand across the top of his head; she could almost feel him gathering the courage to say what came next.

"He wanted me to help him get his soul back, Buffy."

Buffy's heart clenched as disbelief and a completely unexpected feeling of hope flooded through it. Because a soul would fix everything, right? If Spike got his soul back, it would wash away all his sins—or at the very least, it would make them forgivable. It would make him trustworthy and good, a completely different creature than he was now. She'd seen it with Angel, and her brain stubbornly insisted that it was so. A soul would give him a conscience; it would make him a man. It would mean that she could forgive him—

"Buffy?" Angel was looking at her with concern, and she realized that she hadn't answered him. She shook her head.

"Sorry. I was just…this was just…I mean, it's kind of a surprise in that it's _really_ a surprise. I didn't even realize he was gone. I haven't seen him since—" She paused and then asked eagerly, "What did you tell him?"

"I told him that I couldn't help him. I'm cursed, Buffy. I didn't go out to seek my soul; I don't know in what ether it hides when it's not inside of me. Believe me, if I had the power to return other vampires' souls, I would have been doing it. God knows that I've had enough reason to want to in the past few years."

There was a story there, but Buffy wasn't interested in pursuing it, and she didn't ask him what he meant. Instead, she forced her gaze to the wall opposite them and tried hard to hide her disappointment.

"All right. So, you're saying that Spike told you everything that happened here during the past few months? He told you about London? About Dawn and the eggs and—"

"He told me everything," Angel cut in. Despite the impatient tone of his voice, suddenly he looked depressed, as if he wished he could be anywhere except here with her, although Buffy couldn't imagine why. After all, he had chosen to come to Sunnydale; he had chosen to become involved in this mess. It wasn't as if he had been living in the utter hell that was her life during the past few days. She felt another flash of irritation.

"Well, if you couldn't help him then why'd you even bother coming to tell me about it?" she snapped. "What good does that do any of us?"

He heaved another sigh.

"Look, Buffy, I can't give Spike a conscience and neither can you. He's never fully going to understand right from wrong, even if he wants to. To him, the right thing is doing what he thinks you want him to do. Doing what he thinks will help you. He's always going to believe that, and he's always going to make mistakes. He's always going to struggle—"

"I already know all this," Buffy told him shortly. "In fact, if I want proof all I have to do is look in a mirror."

Overwhelmed by a sudden desire to shock him, she yanked down the collar of her shirt to expose the wilted white bandage that was still taped to the side of her neck. Angel's nostrils flared when she peeled it away, but he didn't look surprised by the wounds, only aroused by the scent of blood. Which meant, of course, that he had already known about it. Spike really had told him everything.

"He bit you." It wasn't a question.

"He _claimed_ me, Angel. As in permanently and against my will. He was completely aware of what he was doing, and he did it anyway. He tied me to him for the rest of eternity."

"Buffy—"

"He took over my mind! I can't even think for myself—I—I can't even—"

_I can't even bring myself to hate him for almost killing my sister. I can't stop wanting him._

Buffy had no idea whether she spoke the last words aloud or only in her mind, but in the next moment a white-clad orderly stuck his head around the corner, looking startled.

"Everything all right here?" he asked, an uneasy smile on his lips but nowhere near his eyes. Clearly, he had overheard at least part of their conversation and he thought they were both out of their minds.

"We're fine," Angel assured him in an even tone, overriding the orderly's next words with a decisive, "and we'll take care to be quieter from now on."

He waited until the nervous orderly withdrew, and then he whispered to her, "I know you're upset, Buffy. Trust me, I understand. I would feel the same way if I were in your shoes. But screaming isn't going to get you anywhere—"

"Then tell me what will get me somewhere," she interrupted hoarsely. "You're the centuries' old vampire with all the experience; give me answers. Tell me how to fix this. Tell me how to make it stop!"

"How to make what stop?" He looked bewildered.

"Whatever it is that's making me feel like this. There has to be some way to reverse it, to take away the claim." She looked at him accusingly. "Don't tell me you don't know—"

"Buffy, I don't know!" Clearly angry, yet still mindful of the nearby hospital staff, Angel raised his voice as much as he dared and then leaned closer for more emphasis. "I don't know how to reverse a claim any more than I know how to restore a soul. I don't know one damn thing about claims because they don't exist!"

Buffy dismissed this with a snort, and Angel narrowed his eyes.

"It's a _myth_, Buffy! Just like the fable that vampires can't walk into churches, or that they're afraid of garlic—"

"But if that were true, then Spike would have known it," Buffy argued. Feeling suddenly dizzy, she reached out with one hand and gripped the doorjamb beside her. A sick lump rose in her throat, but she swallowed it back down and forced herself to say, "If that were true, he would never have bothered."

"It's like with the churches," Angel repeated heavily. "It's just a story, but one that a lot of vampires buy into. I doubt Spike really believed that what he was doing would create some mystical hold over you; he's old enough to know better. But if he'd heard the stories…if he was feeling uncertain about the two of you…maybe he decided to go ahead and try it. Maybe he fooled himself into thinking it would work. I don't know because he didn't tell me what he was trying to do. All he told me was that he'd bitten you."

"Yeah, well. Believe me, that was what he was trying to do. And I don't see why you're defending him—"

"I'm not defending him," Angel retorted, "but I'm also not going to help you delude yourself with fairytales. For once in my life, I'm actually trying to be honest with you."

He looked down for a moment, focusing his gaze on his clasped hands. He seemed to be debating with himself whether he should say more. Eventually, he continued in a strained voice, "Spike told me that he wants his soul back because he doesn't want to hurt you anymore, Buffy. The thing is…people who have souls hurt other people all the time. They rape and kill each other; they start wars. Some of them struggle with morality the same way he has, and they do it for their whole lives. And—if he wants to be good—if he's trying to be good—then—" He couldn't finish.

Her breath caught, a small, hard knot suddenly rising to the center of her chest. "Then…what?" she whispered.

He sighed and looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers squarely for the first time.

"The fact is…if Spike wants his soul back…if he's actually trying to find a way to retrieve it…that pretty much says he doesn't need it in the first place."

* * *


	66. Chapter SixtyFive

**Chapter Sixty-Five**

Their gazes held for what seemed like an excruciatingly long time, Angel's eyes sad and steady, Buffy's full of confusion. She looked away first.

"So, you're telling me this…why?" she asked in a strangled tone, as she fixed her eyes on the blank white wall opposite her. "Are you trying to convince me to go back to him?"

"No!" Angel sounded horrified. "Do you really think that's what I'd want? To see you with Spike? Good God, Buffy. Aside from the fact that he is…well…Spike, there are a hundred reasons why you should stay away from him. Not the least of which being the same one that made _me_ leave you. He would completely ruin any chance you have of living a remotely normal life."

"A normal life." She snickered. "Yeah, because right now an undead boyfriend is all that's standing between me and normality."

"A normal romantic life then," he amended. "A husband and kids…all those things women want. You couldn't have them with me and you sure as hell can't have them with him. There's still the issue of aging; you will and he won't. He—"

"Angel, I've heard all of this before," Buffy interrupted wearily. "Lots of times and from lots of different people. And _I'm_ not the one who's trying to convince _you_ that Spike is okay without his soul. 'Cause, I've got to tell you, right now he doesn't seem to me to be. I don't know why you'd even want to help him—"

A small, humorless bark of laughter from Angel. He rubbed his chin and looked at the floor with a grimace. "Well, I didn't want to," he admitted.

"Then why are you?" she asked in exasperation.

A long silence.

"I used to try to break him," he said eventually. Buffy looked over at him sharply, but his eyes were still fixed on his shoes, his expression one of vague puzzlement, as though he were trying to figure out what he meant, himself. When he didn't elaborate, Buffy prodded him.

"I need a little more to go on than that," she said.

"Back then. In Europe. When we were both—" He hesitated. "Well, anyway…I tried to break him. It wasn't anything new, really. Dru had played sire a few times before, although I have to say, she was hardly discriminating. Every once in a while, she'd come home dragging some pathetic young fledge, and I'd have to show it who was boss. You know? I'd break it because not only was it fun to torment something that much weaker than myself, it was also an easy way to torment her. It was like a game. I'd kill them when I was done…or, if they were particularly stupid, they'd get themselves killed somehow. Happened maybe a half-dozen times over the years. And then…she found Spike."

"And he wouldn't break?" Buffy asked softly.

A sour smile from Angel.

"He wouldn't even _bend_," he replied, a hint of grudging admiration in his tone. "Although, God knows that I tried my very best to make him. But I didn't want to kill Spike; I liked him. He wasn't stupid like the others, and he wasn't weak. But he didn't listen to me. It made me angry because I was accustomed to being obeyed. Like most predatory animals, vampires are all about dominance plays, you know. So, I'd get mean with him…do things…and his damned knees just wouldn't buckle. No matter what I did, he'd still be just as defiant, just as cocky. It was infuriating."

"But what does this have to do with—" she began. Angel made an impatient sound.

"When he showed up at the hotel, Buffy, he wasn't that person anymore. He was—pleading—and I don't—"

"You don't what?" she pressed when his voice caught. Angel shrugged.

"I guess I just don't like broken things anymore," he said quietly.

Buffy could have cried at that. She might have done it but for the fact that he was looking at her again. It was bad enough that he should know all the intimate details of this sordid mess with Spike; she didn't want him to know how badly it was affecting her. She couldn't stand the thought of him seeing her tears.

"You're blaming me. You're saying it's my fault he's like that now; you're saying that I broke him."

"I'm saying that he deserves credit. Not anything else. Not anything from you, not sex or love or even understanding. But he tried to do something that I don't think anybody has tried to do before…somebody should know about it. He wants it to be you."

"He asked you to tell me?" Buffy asked, but he shook his head.

"No. Actually, he didn't. The only thing he asked me for…I couldn't give him."

Angel had been slouching against the wall, but presently he straightened up and Buffy knew, even before he spoke, that he had said all that he had to say.

She hugged him when she said goodbye; she kissed his cheek and told him that she loved him. But even though she meant it, she marveled inwardly at how hollow it sounded, how different from the way she used to feel. For so long, he'd been the center of her universe, the object of her romantic fantasies, and the source of her heartache. She'd even fantasized about marrying him, for God's sake. And when did all that end? When did he stop being an old lover and become an old friend?

Of course, the answer to that was simple. Angel had stopped mattering when William began to.

_Yeah. And someday Spike will stop mattering when someone else shows up,_ she told herself firmly, as she watched Angel walk away. _That's the way it works. And Angel's right…even if Spike could figure out how to behave himself...even if I could forgive him…we still couldn't have a relationship. Not a lasting one. We were stupid even to try. He'll be young and handsome forever, and I'll—_

Well, okay. She was a slayer; she would die young. That was pretty much foretold. But it hardly helped matters. She'd die and Spike would go batshit crazy…he'd torture people, knock off a few innocent blondes. After all, that was what he had done the first time he lost her and, chip or no chip, she was sure it was what he would do again. He wouldn't be able to help himself. And was it fair to inflict that upon the world?

Once Angel was safely ensconced in the elevator at the end of the hall—_God, why had he even come? He just made everything worse_—Buffy returned to her sister's room. She was so lost in thought, she didn't even realize Dawn was awake until she was halfway to her trusty armchair.

"Are you going?" Dawn croaked. Her words were faint, but they startled Buffy nonetheless. She paused, one hand extended toward the back of the chair that was still several feet out of her reach.

"Huh?"

"To talk to him." Dawn frowned at Buffy's look of confusion. "_Spike_," she said in a clearer tone. "Angel was here—I overheard you guys talking—"

"You heard us?" Buffy echoed dumbly. "You were listening? You were supposed to be asleep!"

Dawn's right shoulder twitched in a weak imitation of a shrug. "Yeah, well. If you don't want people to overhear you, don't leave the door half-open when you leave the room. And don't shout. You woke me up, yelling at Angel about claims."

"I'm sorry about that," Buffy began, but Dawn cut her off.

"So, are you going?" she persisted. "Will you forgive him now?"

"Forgive him?"

Dawn nodded. "I heard what Angel said about souls…how it doesn't really matter that Spike doesn't have one. I could've told you that."

"First off, Angel did _not_ say that it doesn't matter that Spike has no soul. He said—"

"He said that the fact that Spike wants one is good enough," interrupted Dawn, "and don't try to pretend otherwise." She coughed and added sarcastically, "I might be injured and kind of high, but that doesn't mean I'm deaf."

"Did you also hear him say that Spike will never know the difference between right and wrong?" Buffy demanded, her temper finally giving way, fueling a sense of opposition that she might not have felt otherwise. "Dawn, finding out that Spike asked Angel for help doesn't just automatically make everything okay… it doesn't change the fact that he's got the moral compass of a five-year-old."

"So what? He's still sorry for what he did. That's all that matters."

"Not to me it isn't! God!" Buffy wheeled around and began pacing the narrow length of the room, talking all the while, although her words seemed directed as much at herself as her little sister. "Do you get what life is like, being with someone like that?" she demanded. "Having to always play the conscience? I might as well spend the rest of my life taking care of a child."

"But you _haven't_ been playing his conscience," Dawn argued hoarsely. "If you had, maybe he could've learned something." She struggled to sit up but could do little more than raise her head from her pillow. Still, her voice was stronger when she added, "You admitted that you knew all along where the money was coming from. And you had to have known that he wasn't getting it from playing poker. Not that much money. But you never even stopped to question it."

"And it was stupid of me! I should've known he'd be doing something evil—"

"It wasn't evil," Dawn retorted.

"Well, it wasn't good! Aside from the fact that what he was doing basically amounted to international arms dealing, he also almost got you killed."

"Yeah, he did," answered Dawn, "and I forgive him for that. Why can't you?"

"Because it isn't that simple."

"It _is_ simple. He was doing it for you, Buffy. Maybe he was being stupid and dangerous…but he was doing it because he loves you."

"And that's part of the whole problem; he thinks that justifies it. He thinks that he can do things like this and then be forgiven for them because he did it out of love—"

"Oh, he definitely doesn't think that he'll be forgiven." Dawn's voice, though low, held enough scorn to make her sister wince. "Why do you think he starved himself for the past few months? Why do you think he's been so miserable? You had this perfect image in your head of what he was supposed to be, and he knew there was no way he could live up to it."

"Well, he sure wasn't trying too hard."

The unfairness of this statement made Dawn kick at the bedclothes in frustration.

"Forget the money-making scheme for a second. You behaved like it was a federal case if he so much as laughed at the wrong scene in a movie!"

"He treated _The Last House on the Left_ like it was a comedy," Buffy began defensively. Dawn interrupted her with a snort.

"So what? I've also seen him get teary-eyed when the mother deer gets shot in _Bambi_. It's not like his laughing meant that he doesn't have feelings…or that he was going to go out and kill people like the characters in the movie. Maybe if you'd listened to him, you'd know that. But you wouldn't even let him talk about his past. Whenever he tried, you'd tell him to shut up—"

"Yeah, when he was talking about it to you. He had no business telling you those kinds of stories—"

"He wanted to talk to _you!_" Dawn snapped. "Your memories haven't changed since you traveled back in time, and he wanted you to know everything he'd done to you so that you could forgive him for it. He wanted to be forgiven. But he was afraid to tell you in case something happened differently than before. In case he was worse than you remembered. He was afraid that you'd hate him for it."

"So, it's my fault that he didn't tell me," Buffy answered bitterly. "And it's my fault he started working for a psychopath to earn money…it's my fault he lied about it and nearly got you killed. Everything's my fault and none of it is his, right?"

Dawn dropped back against her pillow, looking pale and exhausted after her tirade. She stared at Buffy from under heavy lids, one corner of her mouth twisted in an unpleasant smile.

"No. As a matter of fact, a lot of what happened is his fault," she said. "The difference is that between the two of you, Spike is actually willing to admit he was wrong. He's trying to find a way to fix it."

Buffy sighed heavily, pausing at the foot of Dawn's bed and looking at her sister with narrowed eyes. "All right. Let's look at it another way, then. Let's say that Angel is right and Spike's soul wouldn't change him in any significant way. That doesn't mean that, as a vampire, he's safe to have a relationship with; it means that, as the man he used to be, he wasn't."

Dawn rolled her eyes.

"Oh, so now you're saying that you don't think he was capable of love even when he was a human?"

"I'm not saying that," Buffy insisted. "But what I am saying is…Dawn, you didn't know him back then. He was so lonely, so starved for affection…he probably would have attached himself to anyone willing to show him a little bit of attention. When we became involved, he got so paranoid he couldn't stand for me to be in a different room than him…he told the servants not to let me out of the house by myself. He hardly let me out of his sight. It was love…I don't doubt that…but does it sound healthy to you?"

"Drusilla showed him plenty of attention in the hundred years after that," Dawn bit back. "And it didn't make any difference. He thought you were dead, but he still loved _you_. Not her."

"Dawn—"

"Why don't you just quit lying to yourself and admit it? You don't want him anymore. That's what all this is about. Things got rough and you aren't willing to stick it out; you're looking for any excuse to bail."

Buffy's hand itched to slap her sister for that, and she quickly clenched it into a fist at her side. She had to close her eyes and count to ten before she could bring herself to answer in a tone that was not a scream.

"I'm not the one who wrecked things, Dawn. I may have made mistakes, but I wanted things to work out. I tried to make them work out. I loved him."

"And now you don't?" challenged Dawn. "Is that it? He screws up once and all of a sudden it's over…you don't care about him anymore?"

Buffy nodded a slow, pained nod, and Dawn made a sound of disgust. She couldn't turn her back on her sister—the tangle of monitoring wires and IV lines limited her movement—but she rolled her head to one side and focused her angry stare on the machinery beside her bed.

"I think you're a liar," she muttered. Buffy swallowed, picking at the layer of polish on her thumbnail.

"And what makes you think that?" she asked eventually.

"Because if you really thought things were over between you and Spike…if you'd really stopped caring about him…you wouldn't still be wearing the bracelet he gave you."

* * *

"Maybe we should just send her back," Willow sighed. Although she didn't look over at him, she could sense Xander's body tensing, his attention divided between her and the road as he navigated his car through the early morning traffic. A quick glance in the rearview mirror showed Tara hunched in the backseat, her eyes tired and her skin sallow in the oyster-gray light of impending dawn that filtered through the sunroof. None of them had slept well the night before.

"Honey," Tara began gently. "You know we can't do that, not even if we could be certain of performing such a complicated spell correctly."

"Yeah. Just think about what would happen to us and to Dawn, if you sent Buffy away. We'd be without a slayer and she'd be—" Xander paused, trying to work out something in his head. "Well, no one can accuse me of being a fan of Spike," he said finally. "But something tells me that Buffy's preventing his turning would mess things up for everyone concerned. I've seen _Back to the Future_ enough times to know a thing or two about paradoxes and the hazards of time travel."

Willow bit her lip. "It might not cause a paradox though," she said. "It didn't cause one before, and God knows she was changing the past plenty then."

"Not enough to be of harm, obviously. After all, Spike still became a vampire." There was a silence and then Tara said, a little more firmly, "Regardless, it wouldn't be right, Willow. She doesn't belong there."

"I know," answered Willow impatiently. "I know. It's just that it's all our fault. If we hadn't cast that spell, she would've never gone back in time. She wouldn't have come back miserable and in love with—him. None of this would have happened."

"Still, you got rid of Glory. You probably saved Dawn's life that night," Xander pointed out. But Willow refused to be comforted by his words, or by the hand he placed on her shoulder a moment later.

"And I created the situation that nearly got her killed two days ago," she muttered.

"Don't blame yourself for that; you're not responsible for Spike's stupidity. Maybe your spell went a little haywire and Buffy suffered because of it…but that doesn't mean that everything that came afterward is your fault. You were trying to help; you had the best intentions—"

"So did Spike."

Xander's hand slid from her shoulder. Willow half-expected for him to object to her words, to argue. Instead, he merely looked thoughtful.

"What would you have done?" she asked suddenly. But he was now in the process of trying to parallel park, and it took him a moment to answer.

"What would I have done about what?" he asked, as he cut the engine.

"If it was Anya. If she'd done something like that to make money…but if she'd done it to help you. What would you have done?"

"Thankfully, I don't have to worry about her doing something like that," he answered with false lightness. "D'Hoffryn took away all her powers and she's not one to get her hands dirty."

"But _if_ she did…"

"If she did, then I don't know what I would do." Xander slid out of the car and motioned for the girls to follow his lead so that he could lock the doors.

"Would you still love her?"

"Would _you?_" he countered. "I mean, if it were Tara—" he motioned to the witch almost apologetically "—and she almost got someone you love killed. Would you still want to be with her?"

Willow thought about it as they crossed the nearly empty hospital parking lot, but it wasn't until they reached the elevator inside the lobby that she found her answer.

"Yes," she said finally. "I would."

Xander jabbed a button on the control panel and leaned against the wall as the elevator doors slid shut. "And you think that Buffy would as well," he guessed. "That's why you want to send her back. So that she can still have him without having to feel guilty about it."

"I know I can't really send her back. I just…I feel so bad for them…"

"For _them?_" he echoed disbelievingly. "You mean you feel sorry for him, after all that he's done?"

"Don't you?"

"No. Why should I? He hates me."

"He's still a human being—" She paused. "Well, okay. Maybe he's not. But, uh, he still has feelings. And, Xander, if you'd seen him when he was in the hallway, waiting to hear if Dawn was okay, you'd feel sorry for him, too. You wouldn't be able to help it."

"He also hates you," Xander added. But there was no real venom in his tone.

"He probably does," Willow agreed as the elevator doors slid open. She followed Xander out into the hallway.

"Regardless, it couldn't have been easy for Buffy, having to hear everyone badmouth him all the time." Tara, trailing a distance third, spoke so quietly that the other two could barely hear her. Suddenly, Xander looked shamefaced, but before anyone could say anything else, they reached Dawn's room.

Buffy was standing just outside the door, leaning against the wall. Although she made an effort to smile when she saw them, it was obvious she had been crying.

"This is a surprise," she said, taking a furtive swipe at her eyes with her shirtsleeve. "I thought you guys had gone home for the night."

"We did," Willow answered. "It's morning now."

Buffy looked surprised.

"Is it really?" she asked. The dazed tone of her voice startled Willow.

"Buffy, is everything all right? Did something happen while we were gone? Is Dawn—?"

"Dawn's fine. She's resting."

A quick glance through the open door told Willow that it was true, but she still felt uneasy. "Hey," she said, cautiously coming to the point of the visit. "You've been stuck in this hospital for days now. How about you go home for a few hours and sleep? Xander can drive you on his way to work, and Tara and I will stay with Dawn."

This was far from being the first time such a proposal had been made, and Willow held no hope that Buffy would accept. All their earlier offers had been rejected with a vehemence that bordered on hostility. Leave her sister to the mercy of an impersonal medical staff? Buffy had asked them incredulously. Never!

But now the disheveled blonde head was nodding in agreement.

"I need to go," Buffy agreed. She was staring down at her wrist, fiddling with the bracelet that encircled it, pulling so hard on the gold links that the clasp strained and threatened to give way. "I need to do something," she added vaguely.

"You need to _rest_," Xander told her, looking a little alarmed. She snapped out of her stupor in an instant.

"Rest," she repeated. "Right. I need to sleep for a few hours." She looked at Willow and Tara. "You'll stay with her? You're sure you won't leave?"

They both nodded.

"We're skipping classes today," Tara assured her. "We'll be here."

Buffy didn't thank them; she didn't give them any instructions or ask them any more questions. Instead, she merely jerked her head at Xander in a motion for him to follow her, and then she started down the hallway. Bemused, the two witches watched her depart.

"What do you suppose that was all about?" Tara asked, once Xander and Buffy were finally out of sight. Willow shook her head slowly.

"I'm not sure. But you can bet it has something to do with Spike."

"It usually does," Tara agreed, nodding sagely.

* * *


	67. Chapter SixtySix

**Chapter Sixty-Six**

"He'd just be a burden."

Xander paused uncertainly, one hand still resting on the door he had just closed behind them. Although he had done his best to make small talk, Buffy hadn't spoken much on the drive home. Nothing at all beyond a quick jerk of her head or a few monosyllabic words if he asked a question. At first, he thought she might be mad at him, although he couldn't quite imagine why. Now, staring into her glazed green eyes, he realized that she hadn't been thinking about _him_ at all.

"You're talking about Spike." Even as he said it, Xander felt stupid. But it felt as if he had to say something; she'd fallen silent again.

Buffy moved a few steps across the foyer and turned as if to go up the stairs to her room, but she stopped once her hand came to rest on the banister. She didn't look at him when she echoed, "Spike." She ducked her head, her voice taking on a gritty quality as she added softly, "He _would_ be a burden, you know. It'd be like taking care of a kid…or a dog. A big, mean dog that would kill people if I let it off its leash for even a second. Who needs that kind of grief? Who'd want it?"

"I don't know," Xander answered gently. And he didn't. He also didn't know where this conversation was headed. He didn't think he wanted to know.

"Dawn said that I'm just being selfish…that I never tried to help him do right. Like it's my fault that he didn't do right, because I never taught him—"

Her voice caught, and he wondered in alarm if she was about to cry. Trying to head off any possible tears at the pass, he said quickly, "Well, Dawn's just a kid and—and the hospital's got her doped up. She probably doesn't know what she—"

"She knows," Buffy interjected hoarsely, and he knew by the trembling of her shoulders that now she was crying. "She knows and she forgives him."

Xander lingered in uneasy silence near the door. His first instinct was to go to her, to hold her while she cried. It was what friends did, after all; he'd done it after Riley left. But the entire situation with Spike made him feel incredibly awkward, and besides that it had left his own relationship with Buffy on shaky ground. Maybe she wouldn't want his comfort.

Still, he had to do something. He couldn't just stare at her weeping form as if it were a specimen in a zoo. He cleared his throat and said with what he hoped was equanimity, "You know…it's okay if you want to forgive him, too, Buff."

Okay. So, it was possibly the most hypocritical statement he had ever made in his life; Xander also knew it was the one she most needed to hear. Anyway, she could forgive Spike without resuming her romance with him; maybe it would even help bring a sense of closure to it. At least, that was what he told himself during the excruciating seven seconds it took her to answer him.

"He almost killed my sister though…he almost got her killed. He spent weeks—months—lying to me about that money. You think it's okay for me to forgive him for that?"

"Well, yeah. If that's what you want to do, and if it makes you feel better. You shouldn't feel guilty about it."

She heaved a sigh and leaned over until her forehead pressed against the top of the newel post. "No," she mumbled into the wood. "I guess I ought to feel guilty about everything else instead."

"You mean…"

"Him," she finished when Xander's voice trailed off. "I should feel guilty about being with him. And it wasn't even all his fault. Back then, in London, he didn't even want to tell me how he felt. I made him. Just like I made him do everything afterward, even though he thought it was wrong."

Xander stiffened, his mouth opening and then closing wordlessly as he tried to think of something to say. Was she talking about sex? Because if she was, he really needed to figure out a way to change the subject.

"Everybody makes mistakes," he told her lamely. She laughed without humor and raised her head from the newel post.

"Not like mine."

"Sure they do. And it's even—" he almost choked on the word "—understandable how you would. Spike's good-looking. Back then, he would've had the whole tortured Dickensian vibe going on. Probably lots of women would've—I mean, if they were in your shoes—"

Jeez. He was really bad at this, and Buffy was looking at him as if he had giant insects crawling across his face. Xander clamped his mouth shut and turned his head, wishing he could just make a run for the door and end this.

But she was the Slayer. Even if he had a head start, she'd probably catch him before he could reach his car. He gathered his courage and tried again.

"So, you made one mistake. You're trying to fix it now. That's what counts."

"Dawn doesn't think I'm fixing anything," she said bitterly. "She thinks I'm using it as an excuse to take the easy way out. She thinks I don't want—"

Her words came to such an abrupt halt that it startled Xander, and he looked over at her to see if she was all right.

"Buffy…" he began softly, once it became clear that she wasn't going to finish her thought. "What _do_ you want?"

"I don't want to always be responsible for him. I don't always want to be the one to blame when he messes up." She paused. Then: "And I would be, you know. I'd have to be his conscience and teach him how to act normal. Do you have any idea what that would be like?"

"Well, yeah. Kind of." It cost Xander to admit that, but he thought it might make Buffy feel better to know that he did understand, at least to some degree. She didn't say anything else, but he could feel the question in her gaze, so he added awkwardly, "Well, you know how Anya can be."

"But that's different because Anya has a soul," Buffy argued. "Doesn't she?"

"Of course she does!" he snapped, while at the same time realizing in horror that he had never really considered the matter before. "But she spent a long time being a vengeance demon. She doesn't remember how to—how we do things—and I've got to help her with that. It's not always easy."

"Is it worth it?"

There was a tinge of something else in Buffy's tone now. Although Xander couldn't quite define what it was, it gave him an uneasy feeling, as if he had started her down a path she'd have done better to avoid. He chose his next words carefully.

"With Anya, it's worth it. She's a human and she wants to learn how to act like one. She can learn. But with Spike, it's different. Even if says he wants to be good. I mean, Buffy, don't you think he's a little—"

"A little _what?_" she demanded when he hesitated. Her angry expression startled him and he backtracked hastily.

"—short."

It was the first word that came to his mind but so absurd that both Xander and Buffy laughed in spite of themselves.

"Yes, he's short," she said, sobering. "And soulless and immoral and completely stupid. I know all that."

"But?" he prompted. Not that he wanted to know, but he knew she wanted to tell him. She needed to tell someone.

"But there's another part of him that's different. A lot of people don't get to see it. It's the part of him that wanted to rescue me from a life of drudgery in London…the part that wanted to take care of me and Dawn when I came back. He'd do anything for us, and that's what scares me. If I asked him to, he'd kill someone without a second thought."

"Better not ask him then." Xander said it lightly, but his heart wasn't in the joke. When Buffy didn't answer him, he sighed and kicked at the baseboard.

"Do you love him, Buffy? Is that what you're trying to say? That you want to forgive him and take him back?"

She was so silent that, for a moment, he thought she might not answer. He wouldn't have been surprised. Buffy wasn't really great at talking about her feelings. To be honest, Xander didn't feel he was that great at hearing about them. It came almost as a shock when she spoke, her voice so small he could hardly even hear it.

"After Dawn got hurt, he went to get his soul back, Xander."

His heart gave an instinctive jump, although a second later he wondered why. After all, it wasn't as if he was emotionally invested in this mess. Still, he couldn't quite stop himself from asking, "And did he get it?"

Buffy shook her head.

"He asked Angel, but Angel couldn't help him." She sniffed and wiped at her eyes. "But, regardless, that's something no other vampire has tried before—Angelus certainly didn't—and Spike did it for me. He did it because he thought it would make me happy."

"But he didn't get it," Xander repeated. Because for some reason at the moment that seemed to him to be the most important thing. Buffy shook her head impatiently.

"No, he didn't get it," she repeated.

"So, how does it change things then? What does it mean?"

"I don't know," Buffy admitted. She pushed her tangled hair off her face and bit her lip, thinking about it for a moment before she added, "Either way, it's just a lot of responsibility. You know?"

Xander did know. He also knew about Buffy's feelings about responsibility, especially when it came to men and relationships. The way he figured it, Spike was screwed.

"You've been through a lot," he said sympathetically. "He's put you through a lot. And whatever else happens, I think that right now you just need to focus on your responsibility to yourself."

Buffy cocked her head. "And what responsibility is that?" she asked.

"You need to do what makes you happy."

And he hoped to God that it was the right thing to say.

* * *

What Xander didn't seem to understand—what no one understood—was that while Buffy knew what she wanted, she had no idea what would make her happy. She had thought she'd been happy with Spike, but it was all based on a lie. And once she began to sift through the rubble of their romance, she found a lot of conflict there, a lot of causes for unhappiness.

Like the fact that _he_ hadn't ever really seemed happy. Why hadn't he been happy? It couldn't have just been the strain of keeping the eggs a secret. Dawn claimed that it was because he knew he couldn't live up to Buffy's expectations of him, and as she climbed the staircase after Xander left, Buffy wondered if it was true. Even before the eggs—even as far back as London—he had seemed uneasy with her, unable to relax into their relationship. Had he been afraid of disappointing her, even then?

_And he did end up disappointing me, didn't he? He ruined my whole life._

Of course, she'd ruined his as well. As much as she'd like to pretend otherwise, the engagement ring in its box on her nightstand proved that. Giles might have been right, and Spike's destiny might have been to become a vampire, but Buffy knew that she had made the transition that much harder for him. He had grieved for her, and it had steered him toward a whole host of new victims. All those blond girls…

She felt a flush of shame, thinking of what she'd said to Dawn, how she had tried to deflect the blame for what had happened. It wasn't that she didn't share a good portion of the guilt in the matter; she did and she was willing to admit that. It was just that Dawn had made her so angry with her accusations, the way she acted like Buffy didn't want to forgive him, when she did. Of course she did. But things weren't that easy. For Dawn, it was just a matter of accepting a friend's apology and moving on. But Buffy was the Slayer. She had the world at her back, depending on her to make the right decision and judging her if she didn't. The truth was that her decision to be with Spike had almost gotten someone killed. Had the scheme with the eggs gone off as intended, it would have had the potential to get several hundred people killed. And that would have been her fault, too. How could she just forget that? How could she forgive him?

_How could I even want to?_ she asked herself as she pushed open her bedroom door. But she did want to, and as she began to paw through her closet for fresh clothing, she wondered if maybe a part of her already had. One of Spike's shirts was lying on the closet floor just inside the door, and she paused when she saw it, stooping to pick it up as she balanced her own clothing on her other arm. His favorite red shirt, frayed at the collar, divested of most of its buttons. One of the very few articles of clothing he owned; he'd been wearing it the first night she met him, in the alley outside the Bronze. On an impulse, Buffy lifted it to her face, rubbing her cheek against the thin, soft fabric and breathing in the scent that still clung to it.

_You're so stupid, Spike. Why'd you have to be so stupid? Why'd you have to ruin everything?_

But these would have been pointless questions even if he had been there to answer them, because Buffy already knew the reason why. She let the shirt fall back onto the floor.

When she stepped into the shower a few minutes later, she shampooed her hair and scrubbed hard at her skin with the washcloth to rid herself of the antiseptic stink of the hospital. But despite the promises she'd made to her friends, she knew even then that she wouldn't be returning to her bedroom, or lying on the crisp sheets that Willow and Tara had so thoughtfully put out for her. She lingered under the spray until the water began to run cold and then dawdled as she dried her hair, but it was just nerves, not indecision. She knew what she had to do.

Had to. Right or wrong, she had to do it. She couldn't stop herself if she tried.

As she walked to the cemetery, Buffy tried to mentally prepare herself for the task ahead. She knew it was useless, but she had to focus her thoughts on something or she would go insane. Already, she felt almost ill, her knees trembling so badly that she almost considered giving up and going home. Better to delay this than risk collapsing in the street, after all. And if she could have turned back, she would have done it. It was just that when she tried, her feet didn't seem to cooperate. Her feet were determined to get it over with.

She hesitated once she reached the crypt door, one hand resting against its cool, steel surface as she debated whether to knock. It seemed as if she should knock because it was the polite thing to do. Then again, she had never knocked before; she'd always just barged in on him. An act of disrespect at first, one that had later developed into a sense of entitlement. Because, after all, he belonged to her.

He had belonged to her. Had. Past tense. She had left him. That was the whole point of this.

In the end, she compromised by sharply rapping on the door and then immediately throwing it open.

Inside, the crypt was quiet and so dark that even with the light shining in from the open doorway it was easy to miss him. Buffy did miss him, at first. She was halfway across the room before she noticed him sitting on the sarcophagus. One shoulder was to her, his legs dangling and his head turned a little to the side. He didn't look at her as she approached; he didn't even seem to realize she was there, his glazed eyes remaining steadily trained on the wall opposite. The upright posture of his body—his utter motionlessness—told her that whatever else he might have been, he wasn't intoxicated. She had no idea what he was.

It took her three tries before she found her voice to ask him, and even then she couldn't finish.

"Spike…are you…?"

There was the slightest movement of his head, and then his eyes focused on her and she was looking him full in the face. And, Jesus Christ, he looked horrible. Filthy and bloodstained—he obviously hadn't changed his shirt since the night Dawn got hurt—and somehow diminished. Not just thin, but small. Closed. As if something integral had been taken from him and his entire being was curling into itself, protecting the hole that was left behind. She couldn't bring herself to look him directly in the eye.

"Dawn," he whispered. His voice was thick and watery; he ducked his head, clearing his throat before continuing. "Is she all right?"

"She's good. Or, better anyway. Well enough to argue with me, which she did admirably just a few hours ago. I think the worst danger is probably over now, although she still has a lot of healing ahead of her. She'll be in the hospital a while."

He nodded.

"I wanted to see her, to see how she was doing. But…I knew I wouldn't be welcome."

"She isn't angry with you, Spike. She doesn't blame you." Buffy almost smiled at herself, thinking how absurd that sounded. But it was true.

"Bit…she understands," he answered wearily. "I meant…"

Although his voice trailed away, Spike's meaning was clear. He'd meant _her_. He was right, of course. If he had shown up at the hospital again, before her talk with Angel, she probably would have escorted him out with her fists. She sighed.

"Well, can you blame me for not being understanding?"

"You didn't even let me explain." It sounded like arguing, but his voice was deadpan. When he slid off the sarcophagus and onto his feet, the posture of his body was more exhausted than combative. Still, he persisted, "I tried to explain. I tried to tell you why I—"

Buffy felt a flash of impatience at that.

"God, Spike. I already know why you did it. Do you really think I'm so stupid that I haven't figured it out? You did it for money; you did it for me—"

He flinched.

"Buffy—"

"—and the thing is…I knew it all along."

Spike shook his head, and she wasn't sure if it was an expression of disbelief or confusion. Maybe it was both. He shifted a few steps closer to her, closing the gap between them so that they stood only a few feet apart.

"Maybe I didn't want to believe it," she admitted, fighting the urge to back away from him. To draw closer. "In fact, I pretty well forced myself not to. When the money started coming, I told myself that of course it was from my father. Who else could it be? But I knew, even then. I mean, my dad didn't care enough to call me after my mom died; he's certainly not going to start sending me thousands of dollars in child support for Dawn. He probably didn't call because he was afraid he'd be held responsible for her care."

Her eyes locked on his sunken, bloodshot ones.

"Spike, the only person I know who would care enough to do all that is you."

"Then why…?"

She rubbed her forehead, feeling a hot flush of shame wash over her.

"I knew you must be doing something wrong to get all that money, but I…I wanted it anyway. I was drowning and I couldn't see any way out of the water. When you threw me a life preserver, I grabbed hold of it first and asked questions later…or not at all."  
"Still doesn't make it your fault," he began. Defending her to the last, as always. She interrupted him.

"Yeah, it really does. I know what you are, Spike, and I know what you're capable of. You've been trying to be good because I expected it of you, but you don't even have any idea of what 'good' is. When you saw Dawn and me in trouble, you thought it was all right to do anything as long as it was to help us. It's not your fault. You don't have a conscience, and you didn't know any better."

"But I know better now," he argued. "I made a mistake, but I've learned from it. I have. I'd never—"

"Not this, maybe," she conceded. "I know you'd never do this again. What about other things? What about the next time you engage in some repulsive, immoral act because it feels okay to you? Because you think you're doing the right thing? What about if we have a fight—if the chip stops working—and you decide to take your anger out on someone else?"

"If I wanted to take my anger out on someone, don't you think I would've done it by now?" he asked, looking stricken. "You left me already…you told me it was over. I could've tried to get my chip out…I could've bitten someone even with the bloody thing in place. You've seen that firsthand. If I'd felt like it, I could've burned the entire fucking town to the ground. Instead, I—"

He stopped abruptly, his blue eyes cutting to one side to avoid her gaze. Part of her wanted to think that he was just feeling shy about going to Angel for help, maybe even embarrassed about wanting something he'd so often derided his grandsire for having. But that wasn't it, and Buffy knew it. He didn't tell her that he had tried to reclaim his soul, because he thought that she wouldn't believe him if he did.

She swallowed hard but couldn't quite force down the lump that had formed in her throat. Her voice rasped a little when she told him, "Angel came to the hospital last night. He said that you showed up in LA, asking for his help. He said you wanted—"

"It was bloody stupid of me," he interrupted, suddenly looking angry. "No help there, obviously. Not from Angel. He wouldn't want to give up the throne, you know. He likes being the only vampire to have a soul. I should've known better than to ask."

Buffy opened her mouth to argue with him, to tell him that Angel would have helped if he could have and that he was trying to help even now. But she realized how that would sound to Spike. She dropped her gaze to the floor and sighed.

"It wouldn't have made any difference, anyway," she muttered.

Spike's eyes narrowed. "Why not?" he demanded.

"Because it wouldn't change anything between us. People with souls screw up all the time; they do evil things to each other. Having one isn't quite the cure-all I once thought."

"That doesn't mean I'd—"

"I mean, look at us," she cut in. "You said you were capable of being good, and I know you were trying, Spike. You were trying really hard…you've been trying really hard…and I never even thought about helping you. I thought that because you were trying to be good, you _would_ be good, that you'd somehow just automatically know right from wrong. I've got a soul and what happened to Dawn is my fault—"

"No, it damn well isn't!" he retorted with a flash of spirit.

"What happened is my fault," she repeated. "You were trying to be a better man—a good man—a—a man—and all I did was get in the way. If it hadn't been for me, you would never have needed money and none of this would have happened. Everything you do is for me, and that's just holding you back. I'm not helping you learn. I just sat on my ass and let you support me and shut my eyes to everything you were doing. I made it all a thousand times worse."

With her heart suddenly thudding against her breastbone, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the small, worn ring-box that had sat in state on her bedside table for weeks now. His eyes followed her movements and now they filled, although he didn't exactly cry.

"Don't—" he choked as she pulled the ring from its nest of velvet and pressed it into his hand. His words, though hardly audible at first, were desperate, pleading, and she knew she couldn't have hurt him worse if she'd driven a sword through his heart. "Jesus Christ, Buffy. Please, don't do this—"

Buffy couldn't look at him anymore. Not in his eyes and not at his face. She dropped her gaze to their hands, her own two gently folding the fingers of his left one until they made a loose fist around the ring, concealing it from view.

"You're never going to know right from wrong," she said haltingly, unwittingly echoing the words Angel had said to her at the hospital. "You're always going to struggle; you're always going to be tempted. You're always going to make mistakes. And I don't want you to make any more because of me. I don't want to be responsible for what will happen afterward."

Spike's eyes were closed, the expression on his face taking her right back to the moment in London when she'd refused his proposal. He was a man steeling himself to withstand a blow and failing miserably. And she thought about what had happened later that night, how she'd rashly promised him something he could never have had. How her dishonesty had nearly destroyed him…how it had compelled him to destroy other people. She thought about Dawn, how she knew all the things Buffy didn't. All the things he was afraid to tell Buffy. And Dawn loved him anyway, even though she'd nearly died because of him.

She thought about Xander and Anya, how he was uncomfortable with and a little bit ashamed of her past. How he appreciated her efforts to fit into the present; he thought that what they had together was worth the struggle.

And she remembered all the things Angel said to her at the hospital. He didn't like broken things; he thought Spike didn't need a soul. But he also didn't think they should be together. He thought that Buffy should find someone normal, someone to grow old with despite the very real fact that she would probably never get the chance to grow old in the first place.

All the advice given to her, all the conversations she'd had, all her memories of him—good and bad—passed through Buffy's mind in the instant after she gave him the ring. But, somehow, none of it mattered very much. Her mind had been made up from the moment she left her house and, right or wrong, she had come too far to let such things dissuade her now.

Her hands slid over his shoulders, passing behind the back of his bloodied gray t-shirt as she wrapped her arms around him. He was shivering, his muscles clenched tight beneath the unexpected embrace. Beneath the thin cotton, Buffy could feel his ribs, the sharp jut of his collarbones pressing against her as she leaned up and put her lips close to his ear.

"You're not going to make any more mistakes because of me," she whispered. And now she was crying, although she'd tried very hard not to. She added, with a sniffle: "I am _not_ going to be your roadblock anymore. I'm not going to watch you struggle with something you don't have the first clue about."

"I do." His voice was so soft she could hardly hear him, and so hoarse she could barely understand. "Buffy, I do—"

"Spike, you don't…and it's okay that you don't. Because, this time I'm going to be there for you. This time, I'm going to help you learn."

Spike's eyes opened and he shook his head just slightly; Buffy could see the question forming on his lips. Before he could give voice to it, she lowered her mouth to his neck, trailing down and around until she found the sweet spot. She kissed it once, lightly bit down on the cold vein, and murmured the words she had been practicing in her head for the past two hours.

"Ask me."

* * *


	68. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Over two weeks in, and it still felt surreal to him. Like a dream. One of those desperate, clichéd fantasies of domesticity he used to conjure up when he was human, and lonely. He knew that it wasn't one, of course. Enough time had passed that he could trust it was real. Yet, it didn't quite seem like reality. Because things were too pleasant, altogether too comfortable in his life, and he knew that he didn't really deserve it. Every morning waking up in her bed, her body curled around him. Tangled limbs and soft hair, one hand lying splayed across the silken expanse of her back. Listening to the sound of her breathing, the throb of her heartbeat. Of course he didn't deserve it.

But he had it. That was the amazing thing. Every single morning, he had it.

He still couldn't wrap his mind around that fact. That he'd made all the wrong choices, fucked up everything so completely. That despite it all, somehow, he'd ended up with _this_. It didn't seem right.

His eyes followed her as she went about her usual morning routine, moving from the bureau to the closet, carefully choosing what she would wear that day. She slipped out of the bedroom with her clothes in her arms and a few moments later, he could hear the sound of her singing as she showered. Same tune every morning; he knew all the words. When she reappeared, her long hair was damp and smelled like coconut. She rifled noisily through the clutter of cosmetics on her vanity table, painting herself with the mysterious contents of at least half a dozen different containers. It never failed to baffle him, her doing that. He knew that when she finally considered herself presentable she would look exactly as she always did, only more so, which left him to wonder why she bothered with it in the first place. She looked perfect—she _was_ perfect—and he could not fathom what feature she thought she might be able to improve upon by using that junk.

She perched on the edge of the bed while she tugged on her boots, and it was not until then that she finally noticed him staring at her.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she said softly. "Did I wake you?"

He shook his head, but she apologized anyway, reaching out with the hand not holding her boot. Her skin smelled like violets; her ring had twisted around so that the setting faced inward. He nuzzled at her open palm as it passed over his cheek, brushing his mouth across the jewels. His girl; his ring. He could not imagine what he might have done to deserve this.

"God, Spike," she sighed then. He opened his eyes to find her staring at him, her fingers dropping from his face to touch the bruise on the side of his neck.

"Doesn't hurt," he told her. Which was true. As a matter of fact, it actually felt pretty good.

"Yeah, but still…" She traced the perimeter of the blemish with her fingertips and then leaned down to kiss it. She didn't understand; she thought she'd been too rough the night before. But the truth was that he liked it that way. He liked her leaving marks. Buffy had a bracelet and a ring; he had a bruise on his neck and a dozen small, half-healed scratches on his back. When you came right down to it, they really weren't all that different. Just symbols of possession. He could've had a ring if he had wanted one, but he liked it better this way. Etched into the flesh.

"It's a vampire thing, love," he told her, a little amused by her obvious show of concern. But Buffy frowned.

"You shouldn't want me to hurt you," she insisted. She didn't realize that she _wasn't_ hurting him. That this was the whole point. He could be trussed up and she could use her teeth and her nails and whatever other weapons might reside in that delightful arsenal of hers. And he knew that she would never hurt him. It felt incredible to know that, to lie there with his hands above his head and let her demonstrate it.

Anyway, even if she wanted to hurt him, that wouldn't have been the way to go about it. It would have been much easier for her to bloody him with a sour look or an angry word than with her fists.

He tilted his head at her and tried to find the words to explain, but before he could speak, her arms had gone around his shoulders and her mouth was against his ear.

"Come with me today."

He flinched a little at that, although both her tone and her touch were gentle. And he wanted to go with her. He really did. He wanted to be with her when she brought Bit home from the hospital. He would have gone, too, if it hadn't been for her friends and the goddamned party they insisted on throwing afterward. Despite the uneasy truce he'd struck with them, Spike had a feeling that peace wouldn't hold if they were all trapped together in a small room with access to alcohol. In spite all of Buffy's assurances to the contrary he was absolutely certain that Giles did not want him in his apartment. But it wasn't only that. Spike had his pride, as well. He didn't much fancy hiding underneath a blanket so that he wouldn't burst into flames as Xander drove them to the hospital.

"Dawn will be really disappointed if you don't show," Buffy added. Her trump card.

"She knows already. I told her I wasn't going to do it."

Buffy looked skeptical, but he wasn't lying. He _had_ told the Bit that, the night before. Visiting hours at the hospital ended before sunset, which made it difficult for him to see her when the rest of them did. But he'd gone a couple of times, after hours. One of the night nurses was young and lonely; she'd let him on the ward just so long as he flirted with her for a while first. He told this to Buffy, who seemed suitably annoyed by the idea of him flirting with anyone, for any reason.

Still, she knew a lost cause when she saw one and, in the end, she went without him.

Spike lazed around in bed for a while after she left, but sleep had suddenly become an impossibility. He had a sinking feeling that he had made a mistake in not going. That both his girls were going to be angry with him. And it wasn't his fault, goddamn it. He was just trying to prevent more unpleasantness. They should be grateful.

He pulled on his clothes and then drifted downstairs in search of breakfast. Or lunch, rather. It was well past noon. There were nine packets of blood in the fridge. Spike examined each of them, carefully choosing the one closest to its expiration date and dumping it into a mug. There was no real reason for him to be so frugal. The Council was paying Buffy a wage now. Not a great wage, certainly. Not what her life was worth. But it was enough to satisfy the mortgage and to keep the sisters in food and clothing and small comforts. He knew that Buffy would have stocked the fridge with blood if he had let her, but he had no intention of letting her. He gambled for his cash, gave Buffy whatever was leftover after buying blood and cigarettes. It was never much. Never enough to help in a substantial way. And that bothered him.

_Don't want to be always living off you, pet._

It made her angry whenever he said that. She would invariably call him an idiot and insist that he was doing more than his part. And he did do a lot. He did everything he could. Two or three nights a week, he would patrol the cemeteries alone, allowing Buffy to have time off to be with Dawn, at the hospital, or with her friends, at the Bronze. The nights she did patrol, he always went with her. Yet, it hardly seemed like work; he enjoyed it too much. He felt as if he should be doing more. He felt as if he should be doing it all.

The microwave beeped shrilly, and Spike pulled out his blood with a sigh. By now, Buffy and Xander would have collected Bit from the hospital. They would be on their way over to Giles' house to celebrate her recovery.

_It's better that I'm not there,_ he thought morosely. _They'll have a better time, not having to worry about the Big Bad screwing everything up._

The coffee mug he poured his blood into was small, but when he drained it, Spike didn't want any more. He felt jealous and hurt, although staying home had been all his idea. Yet, despite all his insistence to the contrary, he wanted to be part of that aspect of their lives. He wanted to be welcome. He wanted—

But before he could fully decide what else he wanted, there was a sudden, sharp bang at the front of the house, startling him so much that he dropped the empty mug. He charged through the kitchen door, fully prepared to do battle with whatever nasty thing had burst into his house in search of the Slayer.

A good plan but for the fact that the moment he stepped into the dining room, he ran smack into the Slayer.

"Whoa," she exclaimed, gripping his shoulders. The force of the collision had almost knocked her down. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

Spike gaped at her stupidly for half a second, and then he found his tongue.

"What in the bleeding hell are you doing back so early? Is Dawn all right?"

"Dawn's fine. I left her on the side of the road to find her own way home. I figured the fresh air would do her good."

"Buffy—"

"She's in the living room, Spike. She's fine."

It was only then that he noticed the bags at their feet, the warm, greasy smell of Mexican takeout.

"What about the thing—the party—at Giles' house—"

Buffy shrugged.

"You'll have to ask her," she answered. Then, she indicated the bags. "I've got to dish up this stuff before it gets cold."

Bewildered, Spike watched her disappear through the kitchen door. For a moment, he considered following her and demanding to know what had happened, but something told him that she would be no more helpful than before. Instead, he continued on his original route to the foyer.

Dawn was standing just inside the entrance to the living room, an assortment of DVDs fanned in her hand like playing cards.

"We rented _Back to the Future_," she said, as if they had been in the middle of a conversation. "It seemed kind of appropriate."

His eyes darted over her, taking stock of her appearance: a little pale, a little thin, but smiling. In fact, he thought it almost looked as if she was laughing at him.

"What about your party, Niblet?"

"The food was lame," she told him. Her voice was airy but she was looking at him now, and there was something in her eyes. It wasn't sad or reproachful—it wasn't even serious—but it made him ache. It made him feel—

"Welcome home, Spike."

—ten fucking feet tall.

He swallowed, forced out a hoarse chuckle.

"Same to you, Bit." He wanted to hug her, but somehow it seemed too awkward. He was afraid she would think he was a ponce, or weak. Instead, he reached out and ruffled her hair. "Welcome home."

* * *

"Why'd you come back for me that night?" Spike asked, hours later.

There was a saccharine 1980's film on the television, a chaos of dirty plates and takeout debris scattered across the coffee table. Dawn lay curled up on the other end of the sofa, her long hair falling across her face. She had drifted off midway through the third _Back to the Future_ movie, and neither of them had the heart to wake her. Spike knew how she felt. He had been half asleep himself, lulled by hours of mindless entertainment and too much food. By the warm weight of Buffy's body curled up against him. He'd been reliving that moment as he dozed. The night she had come back for him.

Buffy raised her head from his shoulder. Despite the drowsy tone of his voice, his eyes were wide open and alert, clearly intent upon getting his answer. He had always been afraid to ask the question, before.

"Why do you think I came back?" she countered gently. Her fingers threaded through his messy hair, stroking in a way that did not help to keep his thoughts on track.

"Well, I don't know, do I? Last I knew, you were telling me that you'd never be mine. And then—"

"And then?"

"And then you just showed up out of nowhere and wanted me to ask you—" He paused. Then, very softly: "Why'd you do that, Buffy?"

She didn't hesitate, not for an instant.

"I did it because I love you."

That should have been enough for him. After all, it was everything. Yet, somehow, he still felt dissatisfied. Uncertain. Yes, she loved him. But for how long? How could he possibly keep her love when he had no idea how he had won it in the first place?

"Oh, Spike." Buffy looked as if she could read every thought in his head. "I know I was wrong to tell you all those things before. It's just that I felt so—"

"What?"

"Guilty."

It wasn't the word he had been expecting. He tensed a little in her embrace, and turned his head to the side.

"For loving me, you mean?"

Buffy shook her head. "For hurting you," she whispered. "For lying to you, back in London. For making you—"

"—into this," he finished bitterly. "Would you rather be back in London? If Willow offered to send you—"

"Do you really think I would do that to you?"

He didn't know what to believe. And he felt confused. The person back in London was just a younger, infinitely more naïve version of the person who sat here with her now, and it seemed idiotic to feel jealous of himself. Yet there it was, envy so strong that it almost choked him. Because if she still wanted that life—a life he couldn't possibly offer her now—

"Why would I do that?" she asked softly, interrupting his thoughts. "Why do you think I would want to go back there when you've worked so hard to get here?"

A sudden hitch in his breath, at that. At the small hands that were working their way beneath his shirt to stroke his stomach.

"Back then I could take care of you—I would've taken care of you—and now I want to and—"

_And I'm not able._

He couldn't finish the thought; it was too humiliating. But he could see in her eyes that she knew what he had been about to say.

"You _do_ take care of me," she argued. "You do all kinds of things to—but the point is that you shouldn't feel like you _have_ to. That was where I screwed everything up…making you think it was your job. I can support myself."

Spike was silent, thinking about that. What she was saying made sense. It made him feel good. Yet, at the same time, it went against all his instincts.

Buffy was watching him with a small frown.

"Hey," she said, pulling one hand from beneath his shirt so that she could touch his cheek. When he looked at her, she asked, very seriously, "Do _you_ want to go back? Is that what this is about? Do you wish that we could have stayed there together? Are you unhappy—?"

His eyes moved from her face to Dawn's and then back again. She was sitting on his lap with his arms around her waist…with her hands on him…and she wanted to know if he was _unhappy?_ The absurdity of it was almost enough to make him laugh.

"Why would I want to go back to that time, love? All the things I wanted back then…all the things I dreamed about…I've got them here. I've got everything I ever—" He choked, feeling oddly bashful. Unable to go on.

Buffy smiled at him then, and lowered her head so that she could kiss his neck.

"So you've got everything you want. Now learn how to enjoy it."

Spike was glad that her head was underneath his chin and she couldn't see the silly grin that had suddenly spread across his face.

"I can do that," he said.

**The End**


End file.
